Find Your Voice
by RulerOfAllThatIsEvilChiFlowers
Summary: Warning, topic - rape. Darkness scares us. There comes a time when the control that keeps us sane slips through our fingers. Most of us will aim to seize it back. But what happens when all that vanishes in a blink of an eye? When Addison is faced with a traumatic event, will she find an escape from the dark or will she continue to live in the dark? Post 2x12. Addison/Derek #Addek
1. ADDISON, DON’T!

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 _ **Chapter One**_

ADDISON, DON'T!

* * *

 _. . .She was life itself. Wild and free. Wonderful chaotic. A perfectly put together mess. . ._

-:-

Her whole body is churning, head to toe and everywhere in between. _Everywhere_. Her thoughts, her blood, her heart - _oh, especially her heart_ \- are all racing. Her face is hot to the touch, her fingers clutching her hot buttered rum is cold as ice. Though her extremities are always just that - cold. Her mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. She tries to swallow; it's sandpaper. _God!_ Even her hair is freaking out of place and she knows the reason as to why. It's because she's here, in this god forsaken city.

A city that she dropped everything back in New York for just to be called Satan.

A city that's telling her that she've moved for no apparent reason now.

A city that clearly, with her lack of friends, doesn't want her.

A city that's as moist as the Amazon.

A city where she moved into a tin can because Derek said he'll give them a try.

 _Christmas makes you want to be with the people you love._

Yes, it does and that's why she wishes she could spend it with her husband.

 _Christmas makes you want to be with the people you love._

She has to read in between the lines to understand that one.

 _It's_ saying - _no_ , it's a clear indication that he doesn't love her anymore and especially by the way he had looked at her.

It's not the same. It's not like before.

 _Christmas makes you want to be with the people you love._

That used to be her - the people that he loves.

They're not looking at each other. They don't dare say a word to one another. But he's all she can see in her peripheral view. _Hunched_ _back_. _Hands folded together_. _Jet black curls falling forward_. And she tries to pull away from him. _But how can she when there's a distance of the Great Wall between them?_

She wants to though - to pull away, that is. Because maybe if he held onto her, cling onto her or try to stop her from escaping, that way she'll know he actually still cares about her feelings.

But he mustn't. He really mustn't because if he really actually still cared, he would have suppressed the urge to completely ruin Christmas for her forever since he knows just how much she loves this time of year and how much it means to her. _He knows_. He freaking knows that.

He must still remember.

She knows he does.

He just doesn't care anymore.

They used to love Christmas. It was their holiday, not an explanation needed. Christmas was their's and only their's and everyone who knew them knows that.

 _We love Christmas._

Nothing will ever be the same.

There's tension. There's heat. There's hate. There's silence. And there's a mountain of said and unsaid regrets between them.

He's right there. Just...right there, silent and not looking at her while she _is_ looking at him. She's hoping that her gaze will encourage him to cast a glance her way. She doubts he ever will. She can only hope so. So, he could see the devastation his words has caused her.

Maybe that's why he's not willing to face her, because he knows. He knows that he've hurt her and he doesn't need the guilt right now.

But she's hurt.

He has hurt her.

But she hurt him first.

He's beside her. She can hear his long, dragged and tired sigh that is anything but. It's directed towards her. The fall and rise of his breathing is one that's unfamiliar to her now - maybe Meredith can decipher that one for her. He's sitting next to her with intentional space, looking into his scotch like it holds the fucking answers.

 _Is he waiting for her to saying something?_

She wants to say something, anything really, but she doesn't. Only because her brain and lips aren't cooperating and she knows it's a painful mirage her broken parts have conjured up in an attempt to save her from herself.

She looks back down at the bar, needing to see something bold, solid, something real. She grabs her glass and downs it in one gulp. That much is certainly real.

 _I'm lonely, Derek_ \- that was what she had said to him. She sounds pathetic, she's well aware of that phenomenon. Lately, it's all she is and sound. _Pathetic_. It's just that he hasn't touched her in so long that she thinks she's forgotten how it feels to be loved by _McDreamy_.

That is what the interns are calling her husband. Meredith included. It's inappropriate - to her, it is. He's an attending. But it only seems to fuel his ego.

 _I'm lonely..._

She's so fucking lonely and she wants him to be her Derek again. She needs him to believe how sorry she is. _Why can't she get that through to him anymore? Why don't he listen to her anymore? Why can't he believe her anymore? Why can't he love her like before?_ She is sorry. She wants him to want her. Again. Like before.

 _Hurt._

But she hurt him first. _Remember?_

When he speaks, she knows for certain that he's real - really real and had said all those ( _the truth_ ) to her - the voice that has visited her so often in her dreams unchanged by their time apart.

"Addie, it's Christmas."

She knows.

 _Why is he saying that?_

But before she can stop herself, her brain is rushing headlong down a familiar path, playing a familiar game - that of trying to figure out if this distinction in nomenclature means something particular. Like that he's telling her to stay because he actually still loves her.

 _You crazy fool. He doesn't love you anymore. He basically spelt it all out for you. Stop wanting what you can't have._

The more pragmatic side of her brain interrupts.

 _He's past you now, Addison. You did this to your relationship. It's all your fault. You wasted your time here. Go back to New York. Salvage what's left of your life there. He left you hanging with your goddamn hand in the air. No high five for you or declarations of love for the dying or not._

She shuts both sides of her brain down, focuses on scrawling on words. "I-I gotta go, Derek."

No hidden or underlying message there. Just a curt, straightforward plea. _I gotta go._ And it's partly because this desperate scrawl is all her muddled brain can handle.

She wants to scream bloody murder when she walk out to the parking lot, remembering only then that she doesn't have her car.

Derek drove them to the hospital in his jeep the other morning. Though the jeep was all wrong for her because she doesn't, have never and have never thought she'll ever ride one, she kept her complaining to a bare minimum.

She's trying. It's all she can do.

She can't stay there or _here_ any longer.

Nobody wants her here.

She's the devil.

Seattle, itself, doesn't even want her since it's purposefully messing with her hair in a bid to kick her out.

She's going back home with no husband. Only divorce papers. He has to sign it because it doesn't even make any sense for him not to.

All she has left with right now is just enough cognitive ability to understand that she needs to make it to her car, that's in the woods.

 _Can't he see that she's trying to make them work?_

She still wants a drink though. _Needs a drink._ She's craving to drink. But she just doesn't want to go back into that stupid bar with all it's damn cheer and optimism. _Positivity_. She's done with optimism and smiles for a while, she thinks.

Indiscriminate shapes begin to blur past the window of the cab she managed to hop in to, falling into stooped hunches until she's pretty sure they're suffocating her, judging by the heavy lead weight on her chest.

But that doesn't make any sense. He knows her. She knows he still does. And he must have known that whatever he was going to say will - _WILL_ eventually crush her to pieces. So, that contradicts whatever he was hoping to accomplish.

Her lungs are chugging desperately for air. The taxi driver is looking at her from his mirror. She doesn't care. She assures him that she's just fine. She just wants to get to that bar - whatever bar he's going to take her.

 _Meredith wasn't a fling. She wasn't revenge. I fell in love with her._

Oh, she knows.

Derek loves Meredith. Meredith loves Derek. Everyone with eyes can see that. The only ones who can't seem to see that are Derek and Meredith, themselves

It's bad enough that they're - _she's_ hospital gossip. A laughing stock. Now, every nurse and doctor, scrub technician and orderly will know that she lost her husband of eleven years to a one night stand. An intern.

A third wheel, that's what she is.

She's the third wheel in her marriage with her husband.

Sometimes she wishes she was blind because, in that way, Derek and Meredith can make googly eyes at one another and she'll be in total oblivion about it all. That would be much much easier for all of them.

For her. For him. And of course, for Meredith.

 _That doesn't go away because I decided to stay with you._

She understands. _Sure, she does._ Love just doesn't go away no matter how many times you wish it upon a star. _Yes, she understands._ But when is he going to start trying. _When?_ She've been waiting and judging by what he had just confessed to her, he's never going to.

 _Why decide to stay with her, then?_

 _To hurt her?_

Okay. She knows she have hurt him first.

* * *

After the day she has had, she needs to do something, something to keep her from sinking into an even deeper despair then she already is in. She needs to quell her burning thoughts and as she downed drink after drink, noting that after the third, the disgusting, burning taste of whiskey seem to dissipate into that of satisfaction, she no longer feels despair. She is feeling rather light, as if she were in a bubble and everything around her is suddenly funny and joyful.

Oh, she understands why Amy does what she does. But that doesn't mean she's doing what she _does_.

 _Or is it did?_

She isn't so sure anymore. It's not like she's very much liked by the Shepherds these days. They don't exactly talk _to_ her now. Not at all actually. And it isn't like she's picking up the phone and dialling their numbers too. She also isn't exactly their number one fan lately. Well, it's not like she ever was to begin with. But talking _about_ her is a whole other story. She's most definite that she'll be the gossip at all family gatherings to come.

They'll talk and talk and talk until the story twists and turns into something completely different.

About how she broke their beloved brother's heart, how she left him, how she slept with his best friend on their bed, how he had caught them in the throes.

She can already hear their criticism running around in her head.

 _Rich. Entitled. Demanding. Brat. Cold. Arrogant. Overbearing. Skank. Cheat. Bitch._

As she thinks about all the adjectives, really, they're all accurate.

She understands where Amy _is_ , or perhaps and hopefully, _was_ coming from, that's all she's saying. The impulsion. The irrationality that doesn't seem all that irrational at the moment. The bad decisions that just keeps on piling till you throw your hands in the air and scream, _fuck it_. Because you've had enough and you've absolutely resigned yourself from anything and anyone.

New York is where she wants to be in right now. But that's thousands of kilometres away and that's a dream that'll probably be fulfilled a week later because it's Christmas and it's difficult to get a flight last minute.

She really just wants to go home though. She wants to be with people that actually likes her.

She presses a finger to her cheek - yes, she can't feel her face.

Now, she understands why Amy does what she does. But it isn't a _something_ for her that she craves.

She thinks she'll die without _him_.

 _Is that how Amy feels when she doesn't get her fix?_

She'll die without Derek. But the thing is, she knows it's a lie that she tells herself. It's not true - she knows it deep in her heart. It's the utterly terrifying fear that she'll lay alone forever that's eating at her.

 _What if she ends up alone?_

 _What if no one will ever want her?_

Because she's not getting any younger and her wrinkles aren't getting any smoother.

She glances into her tumbler, and sighs when she realises there is only a sip left. Tipping it back, she finishes it off, slamming it down onto the counter and calling for the bartender to fetch her another. She should really stop it at that and somehow saunter off to the woods and pack her bags because suddenly the world is spinning and she don't think she can walk in a straight line, let alone up a hill - a rather tiny one, a slope, maybe - without having to grip at her heels and walk bare foot into prehistoric times.

Maybe she can just find her way to a hotel - any hotel and throw herself onto a large and empty bed, and be grateful for the darkness that will engulf her.

Or, maybe she'll get lucky tonight and find someone to take her back to his place.

That's exciting. It's been almost two decades since she's had a one night stand.

Mark doesn't count because that wasn't so much as a one night stand than a series of mistakes after what ought to only be one night of misjudgement.

Derek hasn't said that he loves her...she don't recall him saying those three words to her recently. He's either not sure, or he really doesn't love her anymore.

She frowns at the thought and she feels tears clouding her vision as she wills herself not to cry, not to break down again. She honestly doesn't understand why he's not willing to save their eleven year marriage.

Her husband, _Derek,_ doesn't want her.

She'd spent months tracking him down, and when she finally did, he, then, spent months playing with her emotions and getting her _fucking_ hopes up, only to change his mind again and shoot her down.

 _Screw it,_ Addison thinks bitterly. _Screw him. If he doesn't want her, then why try and chase it? Why try chasing him?_

A sharp whisk of the glass pulls her out of her head as she downs her fourth drink in one gulp, then forces herself to sip the fifth a little slower. Not that it matters, really. There's nowhere she needs to be tomorrow, no one who will be hurt by her hangover or her lack of focus. _Still_. She has just enough self-preservation left to know that she should probably take it just a little bit easy tonight.

It's easy enough to pick up a guy. It always is. Midway through her fifth drink, the bartender sets another in front of her. "From the gentleman in the corner." he says, gesturing towards a man at the far end of the bar.

He's hot. Mysterious, good looking even with his chiseled jawline. His muscular arms are bulging through his t-shirt, and his smoldering eyes are undressing her. He catches her gaze, and lets a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

Definitely not a guy whom she'd go for. But... _what the heck!_ It's not like she's ever been consistent.

She studies him for a moment, then finishes her drink. Slamming it on the bar, then swallows the shot he bought her in one gulp before sliding off her barstool and walking towards him.

He doesn't say anything as she approaches, just holds her gaze. She stops in front of him, studying him for a long moment. His eyes slide down her body, stopping at her chest, her legs, before moving back up to her face.

"Let's get out of here." she rasps.

He follows her out of the bar without a word.

She should really be ashamed of herself since she's too old for this - she's far past her twenties. But she'd spent all of her twenties with Derek.

 _Don't she get a free pass for that?_

 **XXX**

She's had plenty of sex since she'd started dabbling at the age of eighteen. Mostly with the man she has spent a third of her life with, if not, almost all.

They've had all kinds of sex. Awkward first-time sex. Make up sex. Shower sex. Slow, tearful and passionate sex. Breakup sex. Adventurous sex. Super loud, let's piss the neighbours off sex. The oh-my-god-we're-married sex. Casual, let's get it done sex.

 _Rough sex, though?_

Sure, they've done it in that nature a handful of times and she never complained. It's not like she's all that innocent in the whole dominant-submissive shebang. She most definitely doesn't have a halo around her head.

Biting. Clawing. Bruising. Hair fisting. Drawing blood. Shoving one another up against the walls. Fighting for dominance.

She enjoys the occasional pain and hardness that the kind accompanies and entrails. And it's something she've only ever discussed with Derek, felt comfortable in exploring herself with him. It's not something she's ever spoken out about with anyone else, certainly not with any of her other bed-mates and definitely never with any of her girlfriends.

But her current partner, whose name she never bothered to get - he seems to like rough sex a lot more than she's comfortable with.

When they reach his apartment, he shoves her on the bed, face down. And she can't help the yelp that she cried. She can't exactly breathe with the grip that's forcefully pressing her down and she really isn't sure how she had even managed to get to his bedroom as quickly as she did.

She did, though. And she's starting to regret this very decision.

Before she can really react and say something, he's on top of her, biting and sucking hard on her neck and on every exposed skin he can reach, all the while painfully groping and manhandling her breasts over her top. She panics and tries to shove him off, but he digs a knee hard into her back.

Now she really really can't breathe.

"Mmm, your ass." he murmurs in her ear, sliding his hand between her body and the mattress, unbuttoning her jeans. He works the zipper down, then shoves his fingers into her underwear and roughly inside of her. "You ready, baby?" he grunts and she swallows hard, chewing on a groan.

His other hand is pushing down his own jeans, she realises after hearing the distinctive sounds of a button being unbuttoned and zipper unzipped.

"Stop." she begs. She can barely breathe, can barely move. She tries to push herself up on her elbows, tries to roll over, but his weight is pressing her into the mattress, sandwiching her tight.

She needs to try a harsher approach.

"Get off me!" she yells, but her voice lacks volume and strength, and he doesn't even seem to hear her.

"Oh, yeah. You like being fucked like this, don't you?" he breathes in her ear. It's ragged and hot - his breath, and she can literally feel it condensing on her own cold skin.

He removes the grip that's seizing her air supply, only to be replaced by rough, disgusting, slobbery kisses. She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide with fear as her stomach tingles.

 _Why is he doing this to her?_

"NOOOOOOOO!"

His grimy fingers shove her underwear aside, and suddenly, he's inside her. Pain ripples through her abdomen and she moans, pressing her face into the mattress and closing her eyes tightly. He thrusts again into her, harder, and she chokes back another moan.

The tears fall as muffled, yet desperate pleas escape her. They last only another moment before she stiffens completely as she realises what's happening _to_ her. Her body going limp, her jaw going slack, and her eyes are so wide she's sure they're going to pop out of their sockets. So, she squeezes them shut and clutches the comforter between her fists to have something to hold onto and focuses on anything but _this_.

Pain erupts from her core, radiating through her entire body until he's up and gone from the room and into what she thinks is the bathroom.

Laying there for a second no longer, her body still in shock, her mind tries to process what had just happened.

Addison pulls up her pants and attempts to flee the apartment. She's shaking so badly that she can't even manage to button her jeans. Her legs shakes as she stands, too weak to carry her weight and she almost face plants onto the wooden floor.

But she manages to regain composure and opens the door to a corridor where a couple, who lives two door across, raises a questionable brow at her dishevelled outer.

 _Does he know what's happened to her?_

 _What about her? Does she know?_

 _Are they judging her?_

But then she thinks, rationally, that there's a slim chance any of them had any clue as to what had happened only a few minutes ago.

It doesn't matter.

She sniffles, wiping at her eyes before she heads towards the elevator, not uttering a word to a single person before she flings herself onto the street.

* * *

 _What just happened?_

That...did not happen.

 _No, it didn't, Addison. You're not a statistic. You're not one of them. You're fine. You're okay. More than okay, actually. You wanted it, remember? You were the one who picked him up. You were the one who took his drink. You were the who approached him. You were the one who willingly got into his car. No one had a gun to your head. You were the one who wanted to get fucked. Remember? Remember, Addison? You can't cry wolf now because the stranger didn't please you to your liking. You can't cry wolf because he, not once, had loosen the vice grip he had on your neck while he defiled you. You can't cry wolf because no one's ever going to believe you...and with your history...forget it. You asked for it._

Because at any point of tonight, she very easily could have done things differently. She could've not run off, for instance. She could've stayed at Joe's with Derek and have a better than what now is the worst Christmas of her life. Nothing can top this, she knows it for sure. She could've not acted like a spoiled child. The thing is, she is spoiled. Always been. She could've not drank as much as she did. She could've rejected his offer and not leave the bar with him. She could've not been so fucking needy. And she could've not gone to his apartment.

 _She could've..._

She could've not been so impulsive.

The night is cruel and unearthly. The wind is whispering secrets to her. She's listening to them, listening intently. They're whispering ideas she thinks she wants to test out but does not have the courage. Not yet.

She might just take up on their offer.

Cold and moonless the Christmas night is, quiet, and she clutches her coat tighter around herself. She feels sick - _oh-so_ sick to her stomach that she stops to vomit into the gutter. Her stomach twisted and heaved as it expels all the alcohol she had ingested today. She can't remember if she has had any food.

Lunch, perhaps.

Right, she actually was hoping they would have dinner together, or something close to that.

 _Never now._

She's on her hands and knees on the curb, retching and gasping for air.

She wants to go home.

In all honesty, the trailer seems to be the best place to call home as of this second. It's tight, safe and warm. She can curl and hide away somewhere and anywhere inside that metal and never ever show herself ever again.

But Derek is the last person she wants to see at this moment in time. _No, it's the other way round._ She wants to see Derek; she just doesn't want Derek to see her. Not like this. She don't think he'll be home though, and that's all great for her. He'll probably be at Meredith's. She's sure of it.

Taking a deep breath, Addison nods to herself.

 _Okay,_ she thinks silently. Once she's home, she'll take a shower or five. She'll scrub herself raw until she can't feel her skin.

Yes.

 _You're doing great, Addison!_

She manages to climb back to her feet, wobbling unsteadily. She stumbles down the street, holding onto the wall for balance, her whole body shaking violently. There are tears streaming down her cheeks, and she can't seem to stop them. No one pays her any attention, and she's grateful.

Then, she'll pack her things and write a note for Derek to read when he gets back. And this time she'll really _really_ go back home.

The walk is long and tedious, at least it is in her mind, but she slowly finds herself making her way up the tiny hill and across the bushes and up the tin steps to the tin front door.

It's dark. No one's home.

She makes it to the door of their home, digs her keys out of her purse. It takes her several tries to get the key in the lock, but she manages to get the door open, and herself into the threshold. She hadn't wanted to come back home, hadn't thought she could, but for a brief, horrible second, she's so relieved that Derek isn't here. That he doesn't have to see her like this.

Addison collapses to the ground as soon as she's inside the trailer. She feels her knees split open as it connects with something sharp. She fumbles for the phone in her pocket, but it isn't there. "No." she cries. "No, no, no!"

That did not happen.

She curls into herself on the floor and cries, banging her fists against the tin and taking gasping, wheezing breaths as she wails.

She can't.

She _can't_...

She wants Derek to take her hand and promise her that it's all going to be okay. She wants him to hold her in his arms and kiss her hair. But she's pushed him so far away that he'll never come back to her.

 **XXX**

The scraping sound of a key attempting to jam into the lock outside is unmistakably loud, waking him up from the sleep he's just managed to give himself.

He had tried waiting up for Addison, so they could talk, or at least attempt to start a conversation because they didn't to exactly that at Joe's. The night didn't go as he had anticipated.

No surprise there, though it was for him.

She ran and he can't exactly blame her for running.

Although it's now hard to believe, his true motive really wasn't to hurt her. Though that still is what came about tonight. He had hurt her. _Badly too_. He'd be classified as a stupid fool for not noticing that.

 _He notices her_ , he thinks he should tell her that.

He can see it - the twinkle in her eyes dying down like an inflatable balloon.

No spark. No light. No flame. Just dull orbs of green-blues.

She needed space and he's more than qualified at understanding what that need means and so, he granted her just that and didn't chase after her.

But when ten o'clock turned eleven and that magically changed to one in the morning, he concluded that she'd decided to sleep at the hospital and he'll just surprise her with breakfast in the morning and they can start their much needed and dreaded conversation at that.

And now, he's wanting to swing his legs out of bed and flick the table lamp on, but then, he doesn't. He stops and squints - something or maybe it's the creative curses Addison is murmuring that is making his chest tight, and cold to run up his spine.

She's crying, miserably gasping for air and mumbling questionable tangents in the air.

His limbs fill with dread, and he can barely manage to get himself to move with the deep anguish in her cries.

She's scaring him.

Addison doesn't cry. Not at all. _Fine, she's only human. So, sometimes. Perhaps, even rarely._ A few exceptions here and there. Still, generally, she doesn't cry.

But _this_ \- this isn't just crying. It's more. It's something else.

It's breaking his heart to hear her like _this_. He did _this_ to her.

He's hurt her.

The last time he's heard her cry this much was when they were in their twenties, interns with two different last names.

 _Dr. Montgomery._ _Dr. Shepherd._

They were a lot different back then. A lot less sad and complicated, he thinks.

She was beating herself up for killing that baby when she obviously hadn't - a cruel but necessary lesson from Richard, who was Dr. Webber to them both back then.

Through the mist of black and hard sniffles, he can only make out the back of a kneeling figure with stooped and quivering shoulders.

"Addie?"

He calls warily and he sees her visibly jump at his voice and clears what he knows is tears with the back of her hands.

 _What is he doing here?_

She might have just made a mistake of going back home.

He's here and he's going to know something's wrong. He's going to know that she's just been violated.

She hears the creak of the equally tin bed, which means he's either turning to his side or getting out of bed. And when she hears the jiggle of the chain on the table lamp, she yells, "Don't!"

" _Don't?_ "

It's a reasonable question. _Why doesn't she want him to turn the lights on?_ She don't want him to see her so ugly.

She's Addison - always prim and proper.

He's her husband. He has seen her at her worst on countless occasions. But it's different now.

 _They're different._

"No. Sorry, Derek. Umm...did I wake you? Sorry...just, just go back to bed. _Okay_?"

Her voice cracks higher at the end, like she's swallowing a cry.

"What are you doing on the floor?" he gets up, walking towards her and she murmurs something he couldn't quite catch.

The floor is cold against his soles and he realises and is coming to terms with all her top complaints about the trailer. It's cold and to be honest, sometimes he does feel as though they're packed like sardines, void of any life and fresh air.

"Are you alright, Addie?"

And he tries to draw up every possibility as to why his wife is on the floor, sobbing wildly and uncontrollably. He winces slightly, wondering if it still might've been from their conversation earlier.

"I'm okay. Just... _go away_ , Derek...Please."

He doesn't believe her at all. _She's not fine._ His mind and body is telling him to turn the lights on because something is so very wrong with Addison. He can feel it in his bones. So, he fumbles with the switch on the far corner of the wall, immersing the trailer in just enough soft brightness to bring light into the pitch black.

She covers her face quickly, whimpering at the stiffness of her body.

She can still feel his hands all over her, his harsh breath in her ears. He's still everywhere on every inch of her skin and she wants nothing more than to submerge in hot boiling water.

There's no bathtub in the metal box.

"I'm fine." she says, her own voice more aggressive and angry then she intends. "Why don't you just leave me alone, Derek?"

He's getting a lot more irritated by the passing second and her stubbornness isn't making things easier on either of them. "Addie. Look at me."

That - she didn't mean it like that.

She shakes her head, "I'm, ahh, really, just really tired." she hopes he can hear the apology in her words.

He still doesn't understand why she's covering her face.

"Addison, I don't have time to play games with you."

When she absolutely wants to be left alone and all by herself, he wants to pretend that he still cares.

She sighs in frustration and so does he.

"Addison," It's an exhale and he crouches by her side, attempting a softer and less rude approach, "What the hell is going on?"

He puts a hand on her wrist, trying to push her hands away from her face and she does, unexpectedly too and with no small effort.

She isn't sure what happened - she flinches. _Violently_. She yelped like he had just slapped her across the face.

It looks like he did by the way she's looking at him.

Derek, too, draws back like she's hit him. He stared at her, mouth open in shock.

"Sorry." she says, trying to calm her racing heart, trying to turn away so he wouldn't see her. Too late, she knows that now. "I'm just...I just want..." she can't figure out what she wants, what to say, what to ask for.

He sees it - what she's hiding, revealing more than what he's prepared to comprehend.

She's a mess of tattered, ripped clothing, jeans _unbuttoned_ , smeared makeup, and messy, more than just tousled hair and Derek finds himself piecing it altogether until his own eyes are clouding with tears and he's staring at his wife in disbelief.

 _No! No!_

But it's unmistakable. He's seen it plenty of times at the hospital. Girls like her - battered, scared, shaking, crying, trying to look as though they're okay when they're really actually not.

There are bite marks on her neck and scored flesh from where canines abraded her tender skin. Dried red on her bottom lips that's beginning to swell badly. He can see all the purpling impressions over chafed skin and his blood begins to boil.

 _No! No!_

It's a sight difficult to wrap his head around.

 _Who? Who? Who?_

He's going to kill that disgusting pig.

She begins to sob again - loud, disgusting cries that are causing her to breathe in shallow breaths.

He just watches her. Raw and expelling what she has left. The pain she is in, he feels it too. He'd rather go blind, really. And deaf too.

 _Who did this to her?_

"Who-" he wanted to engulf her in his arms which in hindsight wasn't the brightest of ideas because she began screaming on top of her lungs, piercing his eardrums.

There's no life for miles on end, otherwise cops would've already been at the door.

"Addie! Addie!" his tone is urgent.

She doesn't listen though. She's wailing and pushing him away.

" _Addison_." It's a plea.

He doesn't know what else to do since she's clearly somewhere else.

He doesn't know how to calm her down.

He doesn't understand why _this_ happened to her.

It's not fair.

"Hey, hey. Addison, darling, please calm down," grabbing her face between his palms. "It's me. It's Derek. It's just me." he shouts a decibel above hers. But it all seems to just be making things worse as she tries to frantically claw at his face and scream at him not to touch her.

He doesn't know what to do for her now. "Addie, you're safe." he says softly. _Is she? Is she even safe with him?_

His heart is pounding violently against his chest, his vision blurs at the squirming cold in front of him. He tries to shake her, snap her out of this trance, but she just cries out louder.

Their equally blue blues met and what he sees is raw and pure fear in her eyes. _She's afraid of him_. And so, he respected her wishes and he let her go. Not give up on her. But just let go of her.

She quickly ushers to a corner, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself.

There's still tears left to cry.

 _She's afraid of him._

"I'm sorry." he whispers, clamping his hands tightly over his own ears. He doesn't want to hear her anymore. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Addie. I'm sorry..."

He's sorry. He's so sorry.

 _She's afraid of him._

He's not giving up on her. Just letting go of her.

She's crying, still crying and he's afraid she'll hurt herself, or he'll hurt her.

She's loud. _Oh-so loud._ Salt travels down his cheeks too.

He can still hear her long after shutting both doors - the trailer and his jeep. And even after the engine sung through the roaring winds.

He's crying. And she's still crying.

* * *

 _ **Hey guys! Thanks for reading this story in my oneshots. I actually wanted this to be a completely new story at first, but i was a little skeptical. So, here's Chapter 1.**_

 _ **It's a sensitive topic, but I wanted to explore something different. And I think this can be classified as different. Besides I'm feeling down and angsty lately and needed to write.**_

 _ **What do you guys think? I'd love to know. Please review! REVIEW!**_


	2. Life's a Bitch, Ain't It, Addison

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 _ **Chapter Two**_

Life's a bitch, ain't it, Addison?

* * *

 _. . .Maybe there's something you're afraid to say, or someone you're afraid to love, or somewhere you're afraid to go. It's gonna hurt. It's gonna hurt because it matters. . ._

-:-

He's done it again.

 _What?_

He's done it again. He's shamelessly leaving _her_ \- his wife.

 _Why?_

He's done it again. He's leaving her all alone and sodden with tears.

 _Where?_

He's done it again. He's leaving her frightened out of her mind and shattered at their home.

 _How?_

It's not _their_ home, he has to remind himself of that. It's only his. It's not the brownstone - _their_ brownstone - because that's their home and their home is thousands of kilometres away.

New York is their home.

But their brownstone isn't something they mention to one another anymore. It still exists. It's still unoccupied. It's still there and their's. It's still not a topic they willingly bring up. Because now, their brownstone equals to Mark and that's equivalent to _that night_. And _that night_ is something they don't ever want to speak about, let alone think about.

It's, really, all just feeble attempts of deflection since _that night_ is all he can think about when he looks at her, when she's around him, whenever she speaks and breathes too.

He sees her, then, with his best friend's hands everywhere on what's his and flesh-on-flesh that's too pale, that's now embedded in his memory.

It's always there, it will always be there - silently or perhaps, not so silently, but lingering as unrest souls.

Still, as hardly as it is talked about - only when he conveniently feels like bringing it up to throw her betrayal in her face - it's their uncomfortable silence that whispers everything of _that night_.

It's always the elephant in every room. And wherever they go, whenever they're alone in the same room, it's different.

Very different, indeed.

Not awkward, if they don't make it so, just different.

 _Hostile. Venomous. Wrathful. Secretive._

And he needed to get out of that trailer. He just had to. No explanations, no reasons whatsoever needed. But he has one. A reason that's more than enough; he couldn't, he thinks he had tried - he couldn't stand to see her like that. Just listening to her had broke him. He had to beg his other half to put one foot in front of the other and just walk out.

He didn't really want to, though. He had to.

It's haunted with no ghosts because it's haunted with something much more earth shattering and heartbreaking - her relentless screams.

 _No! No! No!_

And when she flinched - he couldn't, he didn't know what else to do but run.

She couldn't look at him. Maybe wouldn't. But he had caught a glimpse of her blank stare. She was afraid of him.

 _She is afraid of him._

He never intended to hurt her. He was just wanting to comfort her because that's what you do when someone has been hurt. _You comfort them._ But then, she pushed him away. And now, he's away. That's what she wanted, what she begged him to do.

 _Go away!_

He's driving away, fast like he's evading from the police. _No, he's escaping Addison_. But unlike the first time, he hasn't got any mode of compass or someone to seek refuge to. This must be how Addison feels on a daily basis. _Alone_.

She moved to Seattle for him. He chose to stay with her instead. But she's still very much alone.

He's just driving, driving with a mind that's empty with darkness.

Oh, that's false, because his mind is not pitch black, it's racing, sprinting with thoughts from all directions.

 _Up. Down. Left. Right. North. South. East. West. Diagonal. Horizontal. Vertical._

Suddenly, it's her pained and heavy blue eyes in his head, begging him to do something else other than stare at her the way that he did. It's all he could do; gawk at the broken in front of him. He didn't know what else to say to her so she could feel safe or even just okay.

No one had ever told him that one day he'd be in this predicament.

Then, she's bursting brutally in tears again.

She didn't have to say it. Besides he don't think he wants to hear it, hear her say it. Because only then, it will be true. It will be real - that she's been so very hurt.

Because right now, this could actually be just a dream, a horrible nightmare and he'll wake up any minute now.

For all he knows, she could've been robbed.

 _She actually was._

She didn't have to say it because her equally huge blues were telling him more than what he's prepared to hear. It's voicing the words she cannot dare say. It's telling him that someone had stolen and ripped something deep and intangible away from her.

Something irreplaceable.

Something that was hers and only hers.

He closes his eyes and grips at the steering wheel tight and shake Addison away from his thoughts.

 _Don't touch me!_

Running is easy. Running away from what he doesn't want to face is child's play. _He's_ _doing it again_. It's the mere thought of having to face them is making him want to sprint.

And it's Addison that he doesn't want to face. Only because it's much too painful to look at her.

His wife looks almost unrecognisable - just almost.

 _Dishevelled. Messy. Out of place._

The way her clothes stretched at the shoulders around her broken frame. Hairs that are matted and yanked out of it's roots. The torn hem of her sweater that exposed shredded skin that someone had mercilessly clawed. Lips that he chewed to a pulp. Her unbuttoned jeans - that he can't even begin to express, because it only makes his blood boil to think about how defenceless she must have felt.

His Addison is strong. A fighter. She fought back. He knows she must. She's never helpless.

But those aren't even the worst sights - it's how she so desperately clung to her body as if she were clinging onto something that isn't there anymore.

It hurts too much to look at her and that's why he's running. _Again_. It hurts too fucking much to see and to hear what had happened to her. _It hurts_. It hurts like nothing he's ever felt before.

This pain, it's incomparable to _that night_ in New York.

It's her pain that he's feeling. It hurts his middle, his soul because she is ultimately him. _They're united as one_. They were fused as one when they got married. Not only did his surname became hers, but everything else did too.

His successes are hers too.

Her sorrow are his to claim as well.

Her pain is his pain because that's what loving her for a third of his existence have taught him - if it has taught him anything.

Everything inside him is burning in flames and it's just aching so immensely now to know that she must feel worse. Much much worse. He knows what he feels couldn't even come close to hers.

Someone had hurt her.

 _Someone had ..._

He's making a right turn, flooring the gas pedal just above the legal limit, waiting to see where this endless and empty road will take him. Because, really, he's just numb and he can't seem to figure out why he is running away, because unlike the first time, she hasn't done anything remotely wrong.

 _How can you leave your wife alone in the middle of nowhere, you fool? You left her crying on the cold tin floor. You just left her there without even trying to comfort her._

He didn't want to run. But he is.

This is not her fault.

 _She's ... she's been ..._

He can't say it. He can't think it. He can't even want to imagine anyone putting their hands on his wife, hurting her, causing her pain and forcefully holding her down, so much so that it left her marked.

But it's all he can really think about.

 _He hurt Addison._

There are unwanted images in his head, soul crushing cries that he's never heard before. It's so loud. It's echoing through the woods. _No_. It's vibrating in his skull and it's making the hairs on the back of his neck stand and he just stops.

Stops everything that he's doing altogether. He stops driving, letting go the wheel and pressing abruptly on the brakes. He stops his lungs from getting in a breath and if his heart could stop pounding too, he wouldn't protest now.

Addison is screaming. She's screaming in his ear.

He's never heard her scream so loud before but it is unmistakably her voice and he wants _it_ \- wants her to stop.

But he can't do anything to stop _it, her_. So, he screams it in his head.

 _Stop it!_

And when that only causes her to scream his name, to cry out louder for him to help her, he finds himself drowning in sea of thunderous shrieks. And he screams along and louder too to quash hers.

"Stop!" he shakes his head, vigorously to stop the echoes of her cries.

 _DEREK!_

The sound waves are reflecting his name one after the other, continuously in a loop.

 _DEREK!_

He's never hated his name so much before.

"Stop it!" he clamps his hands over his ears. "I can't ..."

 _He can't take it._

But it isn't even shutting the images in his head.

Closing his eyes doesn't even help. In fact, it worsens the blow.

"No ..." he croaks, shaking his head, but the word is stuck in his throat.

What _he's_ doing to his wife is making him sick to his stomach and dizzy with rage.

"No ... Addie, Addie, no ..." he leans over the steering wheel and then his body is shaking with sobs.

It only gets worse.

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" he balls his fists and with each and every shout, he slams them onto the wheel. "Stop it! Don't!" he's ripping in thousands and what he sees is an agony like he's never experienced before.

 _He hurt her._

He's hurting her. _Why?_ He can see it. _Why?_

 _She's scared and alone - someone had hurt her in the worst way possible and you think now is the right time to work on your inner demons? Don't you think she needs her husband, Derek?_

He's the worst kind of hypocrite.

 _He's hurting her far more deeply, isn't he?_

She's confused, charged with anxiety and he's only making her worse by not supporting her. She had just been terrorised and totally violated and he's here - alone and crying in the middle of the road when he could be with Addison.

He's wasting perishable time.

He ought to be helping her through this trauma, calming her down, comforting her, tending to her immediate needs and whispering reassurance.

 _She needs him more than ever._

And if she will let him, he'll hold her and wipe her tears away and tell her that what had happened tonight wasn't her fault, her doing or her causing, that he doesn't blame her and she shouldn't too because he knows she will.

He'll tell her that he'll be right by her side through every step, that it's their mission to get through together, that he will not give up on her and she shouldn't too because she can't grant the bastard the satisfaction of knowing that he'd taken power and control of her life.

He loves her and he's going to fix this – he's going to make it right and he's going to take away her pain.

 _He's going to kill him._

He didn't help her but he's going to.

She needed him and he wasn't there to help her.

 _He will, though._

He couldn't before because he didn't know. He wasn't there when it had happened. He couldn't have stopped it from happening. He didn't know where she was.

There's nothing he could have done.

 _Right?_

He just didn't know.

He thought she was at the hospital.

He thought she was with the quints.

He thought she was safe in the NICU.

He thought she was okay.

And he had slept through it all.

And in peace too.

* * *

It hurts.

It hurts her heart.

And more so her soul.

It hurts far more than what's happened to her tonight - what she _made_ happen, actually, because it's really just all her fault.

She shouldn't have gotten so drunk.

She shouldn't have picked him up. She's married for Christ's sake.

 _She's married ..._

She don't think it's her heart that's even in pain because, to be honest, she can hardly feel a thing right now. This hurt - she just knows that that's what she's feeling - is somewhere deep inside of her.

So deep in treasure and so cruelly vicious that it's wanting to propel anyway and anyhow. Not hiding because it's falling, expelling from her eyes. But the thing is, it's numbing all the other sensations she's suppose to feel right now and she does not want that.

She craves to feel everything - every minuscule of every emotion and sensation that she ought to be experiencing after that thing that had just happened - no matter it's vast and potency. She wants to feel them like a force thrusting her down. She needs to feel all the fiery burn burning simultaneously. She should feel them picking at her skin like she's the plague.

It's not fair. It's not fair. She should feel something.

 _What's happening to her?_

She's wants to feel them altogether.

Not one after the other, but all at the same time, like a chorus or a harmony.

All at once. _Playing together as one_. All at once. _United_. All at once.

She's desperate to feel something other than _this_ pain.

It hurts so bad that she can't even feel her hands. They're shaking, she notices, and she holds them together to keep them from doing just that.

She wants Derek to take her hands and promise her that it's all going to be okay. She wants him to hold her in his arms and kiss her hair. But he's gone.

When she opened her eyes, when she had just almost pulled herself back together, he wasn't there anymore and so weren't his keys.

 _He is gone._

He left.

He's never going to come back.

He's disgusted. It's evident in his eyes. He had looked at her with recoil and repulsion, even much more repentant than after _that night_ with Mark.

 _So, what is worse than feeling nauseous?_

She's been tainted. He doesn't want to be with her anymore.

 _What's happening to her? Why isn't she feeling something else?_

She would really like to feel - _feel everything._ Not just _this_ damn pain, she's begging for something else. _Please! Please!_ She'll do anything to feel more than this.

She's afraid that perhaps _this_ pain that she's feeling is so mighty intense that it has fried up all of her nerve endings and synapses and neurotransmitters and that's resulting her in feeling nothing.

But it's not nothing that she's feeling because she does feel something. Only that that's the best way to put it and really describe what she's feeling - _nothing_.

She feels nothing.

Nothing is the emotion she feels.

She absolutely needs to feel more, though.

So, with her hands still shaking with pins and needles, she reaches out with both hands to claw at anything above - a chair - in order to pull herself out of this rabbit hole she's allowed herself to fall into and rises on unsteady legs and limps like she's broken something into the bathroom.

She somehow manages to peel off her clothes, and carefully too because she doesn't really want to touch them.

And she doesn't.

She doesn't like the smell of it and her skin smells the same. _It smells like him_. She doesn't like the look of it and she can see it smeared everywhere on her skin, shining bright like neon lights. Derek must have seen them too. It's clearly there and it's filthy with muddy paws. _It looks like his hands._

And she flings the last of her clothing to a corner.

She wishes she could just throw herself into a wall too. She wonders how will that feel like.

 _Satisfaction?_

After a while of waiting, she dips her toes into the steaming sea of water - _no_ , she walks right into the scorching shower, breathing through the welcoming sting of the hot water as her skin burns and numbs inch by inch and over all the sides and corners of her flesh.

She smiles.

She sinks.

She'll be okay. She's going to be just fine. After this, she'll pack and go. She'll be fine.

She will be okay.

And for just a second, she's sighing in relief because her skin is screaming at her to stop the hot pouring water and she thinks she can be clean again.

She will finally be alright.

Droplets are trickling down her body, and she's counting them or at least she's trying to, because suddenly she can't keep up. She feels inadequate now, like how the heck will she ever be okay if she can't even count.

 _What's happening to her?_

It's more than just water that she sees and she's choking on a gasp and water - lots of them - when a trail of red starts to swirl down the drain. Clutching at her chest and staring at the red, she tries to hack an air in but she only seems to keep coughing on the many water.

 _Inhale. Inhale. Inhale._

 _Just keep inhaling, Addison!_

She needs more.

So, she adjusts the intensity and temperature of the waterfall by turning the faucet a little more to the left and pulling it higher. She wants to feel the rough pounding and the jagged edges of the water and she wants it to hit her skin like a hail of bullets and she needs it to be beyond scorching.

It hurts.

She doesn't know what hurts more - Derek or the what _she_ did or this burning water. All she knows for certain is that she's hurting too much and she just wants it to stop.

 _Oh, it hurts._ It hurts. And it still hurts.

She stands but her legs are wobbling. She don't think she can hold herself up for much longer. She bites on her lip and winces because the water is just so hot. _So so hot._ She tries to keep her eyes so wide open but it's just not possible because the water is angry at her and not to mention, it's getting in her eyes and it's punishing. But she still tries not to blink.

 _Don't blink, Addison. You don't want to see him, now do you?_

 _Or do you?_

She don't.

But then, she can't stop herself any longer.

She blinks.

She sees _him_ and her whole body is convulsing for minutes on end, retching and gasping.

Holding onto the wall in front, she glues her eyes down at the floor tiles by her feet as the water pounds on the back of her head and slips without getting into her eyes.

 _Yes, something is finally right._

She doesn't have to blink anymore and she watches as her skin turns a hue so red it's basically blood.

As her hot tears mixes with the water, she begins to panic because she doesn't know which is which anymore. Both of them looks the same, it's nothing distinguishable or distinctive.

It tastes like dirt.

It's both salty.

 _It tastes like him._

Oh, this - wherever she's trying to do is doing nothing for her.

 _Why isn't anything she's doing working?_

This is not enough.

So, she fumbles for the shower pouf by the corner, all the while never taking her eyes off the floor tiles, and presses the mesh hard onto her forearm and she begins to scrub in circular motions.

 _He touched her there._

She moves the loofah up to her chest not so gently, then down to her torso once the epidermis of her left arm and chest burn and brighten with crimson pumps.

 _He touched her there too. And there and there and there ..._

He touched her everywhere and she can still feel him touching her.

 _No! No! No!_

 _Why isn't anything working?_

She's trying. All she ever does is try. Her marriage. Her relationship with her husband and now, this. She's trying. She really is trying to forget.

 _Why can't he see that?_

She rams her fists against the wall fiercely, kicking and screaming. The painful water above muffles her pained wails and she can't see anything anymore because of the clouds of steam. And she screams so loud again and again and again, until that turns into a hacking cough because that's now all just too much for her. She's a pathetic human who wants pain but can't even take it.

There's no one here or for miles and miles.

 _Why couldn't she have screamed louder?_

Especially when her sanity and dignity and worth was counting on that very expulsion.

 _Oh, she needs Derek_.

And this time, she really does.

There was once a once upon a time when her husband can do no harm. Especially to her; he could never do her any wrong.

He's not perfect - _oh, no, he's not_ \- but she's not saying he isn't either.

Maybe back in the day when loving him had no consequences. When she was blinded with love and love and only love.

Maybe when loving him was young, wild, and free. When she would wake up to a rose on the pillow next to her after a night of heated argument and ultimately, she'd always _always_ cave.

Maybe when loving him was cool, and hot, and sweet. When the rose on the pillow signified more than just an apology. It was a token of his love for her. It was an awaited kiss to her lips. And every time, she willingly forget every hurtful thing he'd said to her the night before.

Maybe when empty gestures, a brief pressing of lips against a wound that would take much longer to heal, a wound no amount of kisses could begin to repair.

But loving him - she've always known would be so precarious.

She loves him. She loves Derek, so much so that it physically hurts her to the bone.

And her heart is in shreds because he's not here.

 _He hates her._

 _Will Derek be back? To kick her out again?_

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so much to love him. But it's worth the pain. He's worth the pain. He's always worth it. And his ego knows it too.

Her hand is cramping badly but she doesn't stop the wire mesh from chafing her skin because _he's_ licking her, chewing her, clawing her, yanking her, shoving her and she still feels him inside of her.

 **XXX**

" _Addison_."

He parks his jeep, unbuckles his seatbelt and races out, all in one fleeting breath. Then, he's taking three huge leaps to the front door landing.

He's sorry. He shouldn't have left. He wasn't thinking straight.

If anything were to happen to her - but something has already happened to her, he's too late to make false declarations.

 _Shit!_

"Addie, no." he mutters to himself as he pushes through the threshold. His heart kicks up when he hears the shower running.

 _No. No. No. No._

She's not supposed to do that. She knows she's not supposed to. She knows she shouldn't.

Addison knows it so well.

She's the one who gives talks at the women shelter and at the crisis centre too. She's the one who advices on the dos and don'ts. She's the one who does the exams at the hospital.

 _She knows._

And she has to know that she's potentially damaging evidence.

 _How are they ever going to prove it happened?_

It's a matter of he said, she said. And it almost never ends well for the 'she'.

They've got nothing on _him_ if not evidence. And she is the evidence. And he really needs to find the bastard who did this to her.

He stumbles into the trailer and runs a few steps to the bathroom.

He knocks. _Twice_. His other hand is already twisting on the doorknob. "Addison. I'm coming in. Okay."

But it isn't a question that he intends for an answer and so, he braces himself. Breathing through his nose as he turns the knob and there's no turning back now. There shouldn't be, he should see her.

A milky cloud of steam rushes past him when he pulls the door open. He can't exactly see her, but he can hear her crying over the sound of the pounding shower.

He slowly walks in, taking deliberate and purposeful steps. "Addie?"

He still doesn't see her, only a hunched outline of a body that he's sure is Addison, but then, his vision clears of all the steamy clouds, and what he sees next makes him suck in a breath.

He winces.

She's standing, looking almost like she's about to fall if not for that wall she's resting her forehead on, and she's practically convulsing under the current, scrubbing to a pulp. Rubbing hard to clean, he swallows hard, nauseated at the painstaking sight.

She's drawing prickles of blood everywhere. And she doesn't even seem to feel it.

He feels it and it stings.

"Addison ..." he takes another deep breath and another step forward, very well aware of her frailty, afraid to make any sound because he doesn't want to scare her again.

He don't think she has even heard him.

It's the first time, he thinks, in years that he really actually noticed her body. The prominence of her rib cage and the pointy sharp column of her vertebrae. Addison has always been slender but never so unrecognisably small.

Her body is a canvas of abraded weaves. Here and there, it's a surface of irritation and forming red and purple. It's not her flawless porcelain skin that he's staring at anymore.

She looks nothing like the woman he married. She can't be his Addison. _No!_ She looks so small, so fragile, so broken, so not like Addison. Addison is tough, confident which at times, could be mistaken for being borderline opinionated, and strong.

She is strong.

 _Oh, almost too strong sometimes._

"Addie, it's okay." He knows it's not. _Who is he trying to convey?_ It's not ever, he thinks. For her. For them too. Mostly though, for her.

He still walks slowly - almost beside her now and he's just realising that the water, as a few had splashed onto his face, is warm.

Reaching in to turn off the faucet - _Ouch!_ \- he pulled his hand back almost just as quickly because it's just too hot. Not at all warm as he had first thought.

It's more than just hot, in fact, the water is scalding. He doesn't understand how she could still stand under it.

He feels tears sting in his eyes, and he blinks to force them back. He can feel the well of emotions beginning to rise inside him - anger to sadness, horror then regret then back to anger again.

Chancing a quick glance down at her naked body, he notices just how red and inflamed her skin have become. Almost like she has had been rubbing and burning it raw.

 _No._ That's exactly how it looks and that is exactly what she has been doing.

Derek sighs, then gritted through his teeth when he reached into the burning spray again to turn the faucet off.

The water stops and a split second of relief fills him, but then, he's anxious again because she doesn't stop.

He wants to put his arms around her to make her stop, but he knows not to.

He wants to kiss her skin better to take her pain away, at least some of it, because what's hers is his too.

 _Remember?_

He can take it.

He thinks he can.

But that wouldn't change anything.

He wants to tell her he's so very sorry that he wasn't there to protect her, that he shouldn't have said anything at all.

Nothing is voicing out because he's having to force down the bile that's wanting to rise up his throat.

 _Stop, Addison._

Her hands clenches the shower pouf that's a gnawing friction on her slight hip. Her skin is red and peeling in shreds. She still doesn't stop and with their close proximity, he can see what she's been trying to cover up. He can actually see what's beneath the scraped flesh, what she's hiding, what she mustn't want anyone and herself included to see.

He feels a surge of anger and pure hatred well up from the pit of his stomach. He has been too shocked, too stunned, too worried to comprehend, but now, looking at her, he realises, for the first time, the full extent of what has happened _to_ his wife.

 _Someone had hurt Addison so badly._

It's large buttons of fingertips and long melted streaks of hands after hands up and down her arms, her wrists, her torso, her hips, and her breasts.

He needs to find him and make him pay, hurt him like he had hurt Addison.

 _Why? Why Addison? Of all people, why his wife?_

He has never had to worry too much about Addison because she is very capable, she always takes care of herself.

His hands shakes as he reached out to touch her. He doesn't and stuffs them in his pockets.

 _Who did this to you?_

There's an awfully large pigmented ugly lesion on the small of her back and he watches his whole world crumble apart cruelly as he slowly but surely comprehends how she's got it.

 _No. No. No. Don't think about it! Don't!_

But he can't help it. He can't help but think of how she got that nasty bruise.

It looks scary. Too scary to be on Addison.

 _He held for down from behind ..._

 _He was behind her the entire time he ..._

It's not true. It can't be like that.

 _No, not like that._

Derek closes his eyes, doesn't will the tears away, only his rage. And he splutters incoherents and instinctively runs his hands over his face.

He can't do this right now. Addison is scared. He needs to be calm for her.

"Addison, honey, stop," he starts but it comes out more as a plea.

 _"Stop."_

A croak, his voice breaks. He reaches out slowly and carefully with his right hand until his fingertips gently rests on her bowed shoulders.

She fights.

He begs.

Someone is grabbing both of her arms now and she gasps and gasps, but those aren't reaching her lungs. She tries to pull away - her arms had gone numb so long ago and her stomach twists and turns when that someone is shaking her to stop.

 _Noooooo!_

" _Stop_."

But she's not doing anything. She can't even feel her arms. Or anything for that matter.

 _How can she stop when she's not doing anything?_

But then, she notices that this particular touch isn't at all rough, it's so gentle and soft and familiar and it's just registering to her that she finally feels something other than pain.

It's rubbing away all the anguish all over her skin and she stops because she hasn't felt this in so long that it's almost so foreign and new to her.

It's so soft that it's making her hiccup with sobs.

She hears her name from afar and she's searching, straining her ears to pinpoint where it's coming from.

It's doing something that stills her altogether. It's leaning in so close to her lips that she can actually feel the words it's speaking. "Please it's me, Addie. Enough ..."

 _It's Derek._

He brings their joined hands to the side of her face, never letting her go as he strokes with his thumb at the space where her crease should be when she smiles. "Enough."

Everything is whirling everywhere, it's making her so dizzy and nauseous that her eyes expels agony. Then, she feels damp woven on her cheek and she's inhaling something that she loves so immensely, that it hurts so greatly.

She's going mad with pain and she's savouring it, not dumping it in an asylum, because Derek is always _always_ worth all the sacrifice and pain.

He grabs a towel that's hanging on the rack and wraps it around her shoulders, tugging at the two ends around her body when she made no incentive to move.

Goosebumps scatters across her aflamed skin and he slowly brings her into his arms, automatically moving a hand along her back to warm her.

He feels her body tense up when he touched her, she didn't flinch, so he didn't make a move to pull away either.

He sighs and closes his eyes, silently thanking her for finally calming down. She's resting under his chin, the crook of his neck and he kisses the top of her head.

 _I'm sorry, Addie. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you_ _. I didn't know. I didn't know._

She feels much safer now, he thinks. That must mean progress.

 _Is this how Christmas will be for them for now and forever?_

It feels like forever later that he finally feels her relax - just the very slightest exhale, though, and like muscle memory, she reaches up to clutch his shirt in her fists and her nails slightly digs into his skin as she grips tighter and tighter.

But it's okay, it's more than okay because what matters right now is for Addison to feel safe, to know that she is.

He wraps one arm around her waist with tentative care too, so she wouldn't feel as though she's trapped, and the other softly stroked her hair - the red that is dripping wet, and in knots. He kisses her hair once more and holds her, muttering apologies into the netted tangles.

"You're safe. I've got you. _I've got you._ " he repeats it twice so he'd believe it himself. To believe that who he's holding is the same Addison he so ruefully ignored yesterday and today and perhaps, for years and years, that he only realises now.

 _I won't let you go._

 _I'm sorry, Addie. I'm so sorry._

She closes her eyes for a moment - just a moment, listening to his familiar hushed voice and trying to get her breath to steady.

 _It's_ _just Derek. It's only Derek. Derek is holding you. He's nice and soft and gentle._

But she still sees the guy from the bar and hands that are painfully skinning and groping her everywhere.

"I'm so sorry." he says again and again and again.

 _He's sorry._

She opens her eyes, no longer able to handle the worldly qualms that's making her deathly anxious again, and she looks directly into his and what she's staring at is an overture of agony and she realises for the first time tonight that she is the reason for his pained blues.

 _He's so sorry._

She is too.

It isn't his fault. It never is. It is all hers.

 _Why is he sorry?_

But he won't be for long, not when he knows what actually happened - the truth.

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

She picked up the guy.

She went to his apartment.

She got what she wanted.

 _You wanted to "not feel" - as you described it, remember, Addison? And here you are...not feeling. So, stop making a fool of yourself._

For a few minutes that's never enough, his eyes met hers, and they both just stared. They haven't done _this_ in a long time - let time tick away while they both look at each other wordlessly, listening to beating hearts that's pounding with electricity.

Perhaps they should've.

They should've taken care of each other better.

He should've cared more about their marriage.

He should've respected her more, loved her more, understood her more, made her smile more, and know all that she's been trying for them is for them.

Their betterment.

He shouldn't have taken her for granted.

He realises it all now.

It's hours and hours of neither of them moving for him, and now, he's not sure what the next step is, what to say even, what to do. But it is like she knew what he was thinking - _oh, Addison always knows_ \- and broke their silence.

"You came back." she whispers. Her voice so painfully scratchy, it's barely intelligible. He understands her, though. Her teeth are chattering too and she's trembling against him with cold dampened skin that's hot to the touch.

She can't let go even if she desperately wants to.

She wants to but she's afraid he'll leave her again.

 _He came back._

He's ashamed. Definitely not his proudest moments. What he had done to her, his actions were so unacceptable.

He shouldn't have left.

He shouldn't have done a lot of things tonight.

"Addie," he whispers over the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat and presses a comforting hand to her cheek. "I'm so sorry."

 _... for everything._

She knows what he means. _Everything that had happened to her_. But nothing has happened _to_ her.

 _Why doesn't he see that?_

 _Why is he being so nice to her?_

If she doesn't say it, then it's not true.

 _Right?_

It's only logic.

 _Right?_

She leans into his palm, and doesn't close her eyes this time. It's such a strange feeling to be both averse to touch and craving it.

"Addison," he starts again, his thumb rubbing against her cheekbone. "I shouldn't have - I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ran out like that, or left you alone, or-"

Shaking her head, "No, it's okay." she braces herself. "I understand."

He doesn't want her anymore.

 _Well, that has been a constant for quite some time now. Way before the whole Mark thing actually. That's nothing new._

She gets it, though. She wouldn't want her too if she were in his shoes.

If he wants to leave her ... _okay_ \- she'll manage. She thinks she can. She'll just pretend the last eleven years never even happened. She thinks she can move on with her life like that.

It's easy.

 _Right?_

She'll tell herself anything just to convince herself.

 _Just like before._

But it is getting over Derek Christopher Shepherd, her husband, the man she's been with for over a decade - _oh, no, that's just not possible._ She might as well be dead if she ever does.

She tries to smile at him - he thinks it's a smile because he's watching as the corners of her lips try to curl upwards but it's just that her facial muscles aren't cooperating with her. Her face contorts into somewhat of a cry and a smile, but not so much as well. She looks so small, so uncomfortable and skittish that it's agonising to watch.

A pang of guilt fills his heart and he just can't look at her anymore. She's breaking into piece right before his eyes and he can't watch. He don't know if he can fix her or put her back together again.

 _... like before._

He did this to her.

 _Was it really necessary to break her heart tonight? ... Now, look what you've done._

Her eyes are shining bright with shed and unshed tears and he's afraid he might be hurting her again, and so he untangled the stiff and freezing hands that's resting on his chest, held her wrists out and took a step back.

She winces.

Her arms drops to her sides, limply unforgiving, when he let go.

He doesn't want to see what he's done.

He feels his eyes well with tears again as he glanced very briefly at her. Just a fraction of a second. She's watching him, she looks so horrified.

He can't look at her. He won't look at her. He doesn't want to touch her. He's disgusted of her. She looks at him, then at her own body, then back at him again.

He turns his head away and palms his hands over his eyes to will the tears away.

 _Oh, god ..._

He hates her. He's looking at her the same way he did _that night_.

 _Is he nauseous?_

She presses a hand to her stomach because it's suddenly churning so painfully.

The attrition of her sore skin is for all the times he has had let her down, for all the stupid that he's said to her, for every mishap that he's made in the last few years of their marriage and more.

She starts to shake harder.

"You're freezing, Addie."

He turns his head to scan the bathroom for her fluffy white bathrobe that's suppose to be hanging on the towel rack. But it's not there.

It's like he's looking at his bathroom for the first time. Everything looks so absolutely wrong and out of place.

This wasn't suppose to happen.

Addison shouldn't have gotten hurt.

She shouldn't be crying right now.

Everything is so confusing.

 _What even happened?_

He still doesn't understand.

This is just a dream.

 _Right?_

This isn't how they should spend their Christmas.

It's Christmas.

 _They love Christmas..._

But it's Addison's cry that stops him in his tracks before he could even make a move to look for her robe. "Where are you going, Derek! Don't go!"

There's sheer panic in her voice.

He jumps at the shriek and rushes quickly back to her, grabbing hold of her arms as he does because she's shaking like a leaf and he's worried that she might slip and further hurt herself.

"No, Addie. No. You're cold. Let's get you dressed, okay?"

Her eyes are so wide, blue, hollow and she struggles to _grab_ _onto_ him.

She's crying again. Trembling violently, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He's going to leave. They always leave.

Reaching out with both hands, he tries to grab her face in his palms, but she pulls and pulls . "Addison, shh, shh, it's okay ..." he begs and for a second they're practically fighting each other. "It's okay. Shh, shh ..." he says soothingly, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

She can still feel his hands all over her, his harsh breath is ringing vulgar in her ears again.

 _You like being fucked like this, don't you?_

She doesn't understand what's happening to her. She's hearing him, echoing everywhere in this tin can.

 _Where's Derek! Where is Derek!_

She's not in control of her anything, not a single thing. Not even her emotions.

"I'm here, Addie! It's me!"

It was just sex. _Sex!_ She's had sex before, so why is she so whinny and hysterically crying wolf?

She didn't like any of it. She didn't like that he didn't hear her at all. She didn't like the words he was hissing in her ears. She didn't like the hands that was so rough. She didn't like the intensity and pace. She didn't like him. She didn't like anything that he did to her.

"No! I don't!" she thrashes in his arms and yanks herself free out of his grasp, backing up so fast - _one, two, three, four_ \- that she hit her heel on the hamper, she curses, then, she's stumbling, landing painfully on the wet tiles, gasping for air, tears flooding her vision.

It's then as he hopelessly watched her run that he realised she wasn't grabbing onto him but grabbing out of his hold.

She's still afraid of him.

He's tired.

They've taken five steps further.

He feels defeated.

 _He_ took Addison away for his perverted gratification.

She can't breathe. She feels his hands tight around her neck - choking her, smothering her with his hands and she's grabbing it. She straightens and tries to push the knees, that's crushing into her back, away.

The entire universe is closing in on her, assaulting her, and she can't fight it off.

 _What's happening?_

It's like she's lost all control of her body, of her brain.

She's certain, one hundred percent, and is totally convinced that she is about to die.

She curls up into a ball. Her head hurts. Her back hurts. Everything hurts. She's wheezing, choking - she's losing her mind.

Desperate, terrified, she bites into her arm, clenching her jaw tight until her teeth breaks the skin and she tastes copper.

"Addie," he chokes on a sob, wiping tears with the back of his hands. He has no idea if she could even hear him over her wails. "I'm so so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Her breaths comes out in shallow pants and he crouches next to her. Reminding himself that he can't touch her this time.

" _He's here_."

She wants to stop him.

 _Stop! Stop! Stop! Nooooooooo!_

He's not stopping.

She was screaming. She remembered so clearly that she was screaming so loud because she had initially thought he couldn't hear her.

 _So, why didn't he stop?_

 _Why didn't he?_

 _Why couldn't he have let her go?_

Derek feels panic rising in his chest. _No, it's anger._ He has no idea what to do. She thinks _he's_ here. Nothing he's doing is making Addison feel safe or even remotely better.

Carefully he tangles her fingers with his, "Addie, look at me." he tenderly says. Tears pooled in his eyes and he blinks, feeling them trickle down his cheeks.

"Addie, there's no one else is here. It's just you and me."

She shakes her head.

"No ..." It's a whimper.

Slowly, he started to rock her, back and forth, back and forth. "Believe me, honey. I promise. _He's_ not here. No one is going to hurt you." he whispers over and over again. "I promise you, Addie."

"He is." she finally manages to splutter out words through her sobs. "I can still feel him ..."

"I can still feel him, Derek. And I don't know what to do."

Her eyes are a haunted blue when she looks up. She doesn't look at him and he doesn't make her. She've said the thing he had dreaded the most and swallows.

He knows what she means. He've tended to victims like her before.

His hand settles on her shoulder, and it scares her and makes her feel better all at the same time. Very very slowly, he pulls her into his arms.

She melts down against his chest.

He can feel her hot tears soaking into his shirt, and her whole body is racking with sobs uncontrollably - hers matches his too.

He also doesn't know what to do.

* * *

 _ **Hey guys. Thanks so much for reading. And I absolutely loved your reviews on the OneShot and here as well. Here it is - a brand new story.**_

 _ **I'm so sorry for the long wait. I was planning to update sooner but I spent all of last week at the hospital with freaking pneumonia. Damn you winter!**_

 _ **Anyway, h**_ _ **ow do you like this chapter? It's harsh. Yes. It hurts to write. Please let me know! So review. REVIEW! And I hope everyone stays well!**_


	3. Did You Hear What Happened to Addison

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 _ **Chapter Three**_

Did You Hear What Happened to Addison Montgomery (Shepherd)?

* * *

 _. . .She's a mess of gorgeous chaos and you can see it in her eyes. . ._

-:-

They say grief occurs in five stages. First there's denial followed by anger. Then comes bargaining, depression and acceptance. But grief is a merciless master. Just when you think you're free you realise you never stood a chance.

She wakes with a thin vein of panic running through her and as she opens to the dark of her home, she immediately squeezes her eyes shut again.

It's darker.

Reality smacks her right in the face, then.

 _No! No!_

It wasn't a dream.

 _No, no! It was a dream! It was a dream!_

A cross between what should be a nightmare - _that_ and that man - the quiet albeit not really since she lives in a jungle like Tarzan, those stupid crickets are always always keeping her company, and the fact that she's trapped in an aluminium box and have nowhere to hide is beginning to threaten another headache - maybe it's just the same nasty one from the roughness of last night - spams of pain are already creeping behind her eyes, shooting across her forehead.

It has to be a nightmare. _That_ had to be an awful dream.

Her head shakes at their own accord. A life of its own. Tears crudely starts to fall but she was there to stop them just in time as she presses her fingers to her eyes.

 _Don't cry. That's enough, Addison._

She doesn't get to cry anymore. She's done more of it last night than she ever did in her entire lifetime.

She was just dreaming - there's nothing more to it than a very bad dream.

 _Right?_

She's a mess, she realises. A complete, total, all-encompassing havoc, that's still tearing as the seconds, minutes and hours tick-tocks without her.

She've always been the forgotten one - the girl that was last picked at gym, the child that was left at the supermarket, the friend that wasn't invited to parties, the date that gets stood up, the wife whose husband doesn't love anymore.

 _So, really, what's new?_

Her body is pricking with hot needles, sweat still clinging to her skin, and her hair is a tangle of weeds, a curling ponytail that Derek had gently pulled away from her sodden face and into a hair elastic.

She'd tease him about his skills if she wasn't so deathly exhausted and in a haze of somber so dark she don't think any rays of light can ever shine hope through. She'd tease him and they'll laugh about it like _before_. She'd tease him and she'll see him smile. That smile, with his teeth and the lines by his eyes curls, that smile that beams, a smile that's contagious, it's the one thing she misses. He don't smile like that anymore. Not to her at least. He'll smile, then she'll smile too and forget all about _that_.

It's that simple.

 _Well, it was that simple._

An exhale very close to her ear makes her jump, shivers to run down her spine and her eyes snaps open once again, one that is accompanied with a gasp, one she muffles with her hands.

 _Clamp. Tight. Shut._

 _What's happening to her?_

He has his arm tight over her back, even in sleep, as if terrified that she'll leave him with rumpled sheets and a pile of still-damp towels on the floor of the bathroom, as if he can't bear to even be a bed's width away from her now.

 _What is happening?_

His reluctance to be apart from her adds to the panic.

Because as far as she knows and understands from his constant stewing and expression of resignation ... _doesn't he hate her?_

He didnt have to voice it, didn't even have to spell it out, because she sees the regret in his eyes every time he comes _home_ ... every time he comes _here_. She sees it and with every single time he looks at her with contempt, she wants to yell at him that she had never forced him to stay with her, to pick her instead of Meredith, didn't gave him the whole pick-me-choose-me-love-me-speech, she never once put a gun to his head - although she might as well have had because he is just constantly scowling at her.

 _What does he want from her now?_

She's beyond confused already and Derek's just toppling her confusion like a skyscraper by being nice to her - too nice, in her opinion. All she wants is for things, life to go back as they, once upon a time, were, when Derek hardly spoke to her, look at her, touch her, held her, let alone kissed her.

But now, he's doing the exact opposite. He cares. There is no contempt in his brooding. Like it was necessary for her to suffer through something terrible just so he'd be the husband she lost years ago.

He cares about her.

Of course, she's grateful. It's just that she finds him useful at the worst possible time, because in this particular situation, she doesn't want him to care at all.

He keeps wanting to know what happened.

He keeps caring about her well-being.

He keeps trying to manipulate her into reporting _that_ to the police.

He keeps convincing her to agree to a pelvic.

And she's not about to be violated for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. _No. She's not that stupid_. She knows what gets poked and prodded and plucked and pried during those exams.

She knows and Derek doesn't.

She knows, so she can't do it, won't ever agree to it. Because, really, there's nothing left to be scraped and snapped and shone and to be stored in an evidence room with all the other backlogs.

She knows and Derek doesn't.

The tables have turned and now she's on the other side, the one where there isn't a douse of light, she knows what she's not suppose to do - all of which she had done in spite.

She knows and she's not going to subject herself to humiliation, not about to let anyone at the hospital find out.

They'll whisper. She'll be gossip when she still is. They'll know. They'll all look at her differently, different than they already are because now, they'll render her helpless and incapable and she can't have that, because if she just as much flinches or stares into space or have a cry, she'll be sent to the loony bin, deemed unfit and that will be the end of Dr. Montgomery ( _Shepherd_ ).

Because women can't be upset without being called crazy.

One pair of eyes is very enough for her and that's already too much to bare. It hurts too much to see what he sees, to know what the result in his eyes is - _oh, pitiful, Addison._

So, in turn, she doesn't look him. Won't, can't ever again look him in the eyes.

She wants the hate and regret back. She wants to see what she saw yesterday at Joe's.

She wants him to just let this go.

Derek doesn't understand.

He never will understand how and what _that_ feels like because, even though there's a three percent chance - _touchwood_ \- statistics still says it's highly improbable.

 **XXX**

 _She holds it together - only barely._ Sort of. Kind of. _Just hardly past the point of no return._

 _With a pillow pressed to her face, she screams. It's muffled, she thinks. Either way, it doesn't matter as it's not like she has any neighbours out here to worry about complaints. She yells because she read somewhere that's it good, mentally, a kind of psychotherapy. And heaven knows how badly she needs her mental to go back to normal._

 _She screams and yells but still she feels the same. She does some more until a voice breaks through and she quietens to an abrupt halt._

 _"Hey, hey, Addie, it's okay, you're okay." someone says._

 _She ignores it._

 _The voice is scared, tentative and hesitant, exactly like how she sounds but only deeper._

 _It's a lie -_ she's not okay _. She's panicky and jumpy and not herself at all. She's confused and dirty and she hates the smell of her skin._

 _But then, it touches her like a soft brush of fingers to her shoulder, and so she pulls the pillow quickly away from her face, blinks wildly at the billions of stars, searching for the voice, and then finds Derek's face hovering in her line of vision. "Shhh, shhh. You're safe, okay? Just ... breathe."_

" _What?" she gasps, looking wildly around._

 _There, in the dim of their home, she sits up, gasping for breath. She can feel the tears gathering behind her eyes and the part of her that's still holding onto what's left of her control forces them back._

 _Dazed. Dizzy. Derek._

 _She has no idea where she is._ At the trailer. _What happened._ Oh, she remembers. _Everything is hurting, that she knows for certain. She can't decipher what is a dream and what is a memory and what is reality._

 _But she can still feel him on her, inside of her._

 _She can still smell his cheap cologne and sweat._

 _It makes her gag, and she leans over the side of the bed, certain that she's going to throw up, but all she can manage is a few painful minutes of dry heaving._

 _In automatic, he reaches out to pull back her loose strands, rubbing circles on her back._

 _He feels tears sting his eyes again, shame leaving him red, and he blinks to force them back like Addison always does. There are a well of emotions beginning to rise inside of him, a mixture of anger and sadnsss, horror and regret - he pushes them deep deep down._

 _There's no point feeling them now._

Maybe later.

 _She stops, presses a hand to her stomach and swipes her lips with the back of her hand. She lies back down, stares high above like she's avoiding all eyes at all cost._

 _His is the only other pair in here._

 _"Addie." It's Derek's voice. He's standing, hovering, leaning over her. A bed. She's on a bed. She can't remember how or when she got here. "It's okay. I've got you." he says._

Shit.

 _She fights to calm down, to take deep breaths, to regain control over her body, but it's hard. Memories are coming in flashes._

 _Again. Like her brain thinks she haven't already suffered enough._

Alcohol. Apartment. Him.

 _Derek is holding her hand and stroking her hair and whispering in her ear. She can't hear what he's saying - because she's trying not to flinch, not to cry, not to jump - can't understand his words, but she focuses on the rhythm and staccato of his voice, on his fingers against her skin._

 _She closes her eyes, betrays herself as tears streams down her cheeks._ Damnnit! _His strong hand grips her shoulder, and it only makes her cry harder._

 _"It's going to be okay." he whispers over the lump that's suddenly appeared in his throat. He moves his hand to her forehead, gently stroking her hair. It's damp. "I promise you, everything is going to be okay."_

 _Maybe talking about what happened wouldn't be a great idea tonight. Maybe he shouldn't force a story out of her. Maybe calling the cops will be too much for her to handle in one night. But they should at the very least let the authorities know._

Right?

 _She knows Derek always keeps his promises -_ it's she who breaks them, remember? _\- and she tries to let his words sink in. It still doesn't feel okay, but she holds onto the fact that he wouldn't lie to her._

 _For a few seconds, his eyes met hers, and they both just stared._ Silent _. It feels like hours of them looking, searching, staring, gazing, reminiscing, of neither of them moving, just reading, Derek not knowing what to do or say next._

 _He reaches out slowly, gently smoothes the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. He doesn't want to upset her again, doesn't want to hurt her anymore, but he really needs to ask, needs to know what happened since she doesn't seem to even acknowledge it presently._

 _"Addison." he says softly, "Can you tell me what happened?"_

 _Her eyes flits up to the ceiling, and he knows that she does by the way her colour dies._

 _"It's okay."_

How many times does he have to say that?

 _She shakes her head and looks a million miles away, shuddering, she keeps her head facing the wall and watches as the limp strands of her hair surround her face._

 _"Addie," he presses with caution. He doesn't know how to say this, doesn't know how to ask such a horrible, painful and personal question, doesn't know how to tell her what's next._

 _Perhaps someone that isn't her will be easier. A patient at the hospital. A complete stranger. Someone he doesn't really care for. "We need to report this to the police, Addie, so the ..." he can't even say 'man' because he's remotely a human at all, "... We can go now or in the morning. There's no rush. But it's better if we go right now ... you know that. I'll be right by your side, okay? ... If you want me to. You're not alone in this. Okay? We'll do this together."_

He can't force her.

 _He can't force her to do anything. She's taking back control over herself and her body._

 _She doesn't respond._

 _"Addison."_

 _He watches as she continues blinking, tears on a much needed recess, nostrils flaring, then his eyes lingers down at her hand that's picking at the loose skin on her nail bed._

 _He doesn't tell her to stop, though. Can't seem to see the fact that she's drawn blood. It's a calming narrative, watching the thick copper flow then, scatter._

 _He decides on a different approach._

 _Maybe if he suggest they go to the hospital first._

 _"Addie, umm, I get that you're scared. It's difficult, what you're going through. I hear you, really, but don't you think should at least see a doctor? Umm, you're going to need the HIV cocktail, Plan B, STD prophylaxis and you really need to get examined. You could be hurt."_

 _Furrowing her brows, her face scrunches in disgust and her mouth opens for an exhale that never escaped._

 _That doesn't seem to be in his favour either. He doesn't know how to do this at all._

Why can't he talk to her like she's just another patient?

 _She winces._

Is that suppose to convince or ... what?

What's his agenda?

 _"What I need is for you to shut up and listen to me. I said no, Derek."_

 _He glances over at her. Eyes angry and intense._ Dark. Dead. Dull. _She looks sick like she's seconds away from throwing up. "Addie, the exam isn't just for collecting evidence, it's to make sure you're okay too."_

 _"No."_

 _Her heart beats an amaranthine rhythm against her chest when he continues to conclude that her decisions -_ it's her decision, her choice to make, her ... _body - are worth so little and carries on babbling._

 _"You could have injuries that we don't know about." he pleads, "_ Cervical bruising _is very common in_ rape _and -"_

 _That caught her by surprise more than anything. The way he said it, nonchalant and with no regard of the demise, the words a knife to her chest, like it shouldn't even be a trigger, like she's common, talking to someone that's not his wife for the past eleven years - her eyes widen, angry words forming on her lips - he's wanting to make her own decisions for her._

One was made for her not too long ago, so what's the difference?

 _Hearing those words feels like a physical blow, a vice tightening around her chest with such ferocity that it physically hurts to breathe. It travels through her entire body as she recoils from Derek's attempts to care._

 _" - Stop it! Just stop it! Why are you doing this to me, Derek?"_

 _She knows and Derek doesn't._

 **XXX**

Every minuscule, every corner, and all labour makes her breath catch and ache, rattling in her bruised body.

She moves, just the very slightest to the right, away from Derek, away from contact. _Away_. His breathing still close but not too, that she still feels it condensing on her cold flesh.

Then, it eases.

Once she's safer.

She eases, remembering the mechanics of breathing.

 _Slowly. Silently. Shudderingly._

The body next to her grumbles in sleep, his hand curling against her lower back so his short nails scrape over battle-stained skin.

As he relaxes, she escapes.

Her feet sticks to the metal as she climbs carefully over Derek to the other side. Mindful of the obstacles of limbs over limbs so as not to trip. She can't further embarrass herself any more than she already has.

She limps like she's broken something, grateful that this place isn't big at all. Dark, she blinds her way to the door. Soft light filters in through as she opens, casting an elongated sailboat-shaped shadow onto the rug. Her toes scrapes foreign as she walks to the outside and she closes the door behind her, giving way to the wooden patio steps as she sits.

Her hands are shaking.

 _Trembling. Quivering. Convulsing._

She has a hold, albeit a fragile, shaky and weak one, on her psyche.

Her hands tremble at her sides until they finds purchase against the soft fabric of her pants, legs crossed and swimming in a sweatshirt that wasn't three sizes too large yesterday.

It creaks, the wood damp with cold, but she's still rooted. And when she pulls her right leg up, her toes curls to keep her foot from slipping down again. She traces the bruise that starts at her inner thigh, wincing when her finger presses down too hard on the blue-red flesh.

 _Finger marks_.

Tears fall, quiet rivulets streaks down her face as she sits, waits motionless in the entryway. The weight of everything settles on her shoulders until she has to lean on her leg for support.

She quit. Her job and pursuing her husband who seems to be a ghost and everything that was her life just hours ago.

 _What the hell is she still doing here?_

He's in love with Meredith.

Her face feels swollen and red, her cheeks stained with salt still, but she can't cry or think anymore. Too tired to put the energy into sobbing to the floor, absolutely exhausted to her soul that her head pounds.

 _It's breathing._

She hasn't felt this lost since that night in New York and everyday immediately after - Mark, the same mistakes, the pregnancy test, Mark again, the abortion, the relentless search for her husband, more Mark - and that missing piece was then found here, in Seattle when she saw him again.

But now. But now ... she's a downward spiral.

If only she could close her eyes and let a dreamless dream engulf her and take her into a world of tomorrow where this was all just a silly dream. A dream within a dream. And so, she tries. Slowly and tentatively, she closes them, counting to three as she does, hoping that this time isn't going to be like the last time.

 _... One ... Two ... Three ..._

But he assaults her again.

 _Defenceless_. She feels, remembers the same ache all over again, the same need to crawl her way to the door. But then, she realises she isn't strong enough to break free.

She winces at the crack of her back as she quickly jerks her eyes open and sees a watery blur of trees and greens.

"No." she mouths in a cry as she tries and fails miserably to stop her heart from sinking.

His cruel eyes that were undressing her. His hands that were clawing and groping at her every surface, her hips, her breasts. It's painful. He's painful. The sloppy kisses and teeth chewing her skin. His fingernails clinging to her rib cage. And the very forceful and unnecessary dig of his knee to her back, because it's not like she even had a chance in hell of fighting him off.

She's seeing him again and again and constantly thrusting harder like he don't think he's being rough enough, even though her eyes are completely open.

She can't close them back and she's trying to figure a way to keep them from doing just that. She can't. Because, sadly, there's a reason why humans have to blink.

She closes them again, for just a fraction of a millisecond, because she has to, and feels him yanking her backwards by her hair, feels wet on her back, hears the slapping of skins and sees fists in her mouth.

She shrugs him off, wiggles out of his grip, pushes him and jumps towards the rails of the patio, sews herself to the safety of the aluminium.

Her palms are sweating profusely and her rapid intake of air catches in her throat and she still can't feel a thing.

She can't breathe in a world that's existing around her while she isn't. And so she lay her head against the cool rails, face smothered in her hands, finally feeling the heaviness of her head as she presses into her palms harder and harder. She can't have Derek worrying about her any more than he already is.

She don't know what to do.

 **XXX**

"Addison."

He wakes without his arm over her waist. He reaches, but he's only met with cold as ice sheets, empty. _Damnnit!_ It feels wrong in every possible way, even though it's only again, the first in months, that he's held her close in any form.

Usually, it's their backs facing each other.

It's practical that way, he'd tell himself. For practically and definitely not because he's unhappy and looking at her only reminds him of things he doesn't want to see and that won't get him anywhere near slumber, just out the door.

They sleep with their backs to each other because if then, he'd hear her faint breathing and that will drive him mad. And Addison doesn't like the feel of his breath on her face. She'd say that that's just wrong since she doesn't want to be breathing in the air he's just expelled.

Morning light peeks through the blinds, rows of soft fire sets along, warming the metal flooring.

"Addison." he mumbles as he tries to untangle himself from the bed covers as quick as possible.

 _Shit!_

He fell asleep.

 _Where could she possibly have gone?_

He promised her that he'd be her eyes and ears when she's sleeping. He promised that he wouldn't fall sleep. He'd look out for her and he have been, he thinks, until his eyelids weighed a tonne.

 _Don't be silly. You need your sleep too. I'm not some damsel in distress that needs rescuing. You don't need to do anything for me, Derek. I'll be fine._

He said she'd be safe with him, that this time, he's keeping his promise and that no one is ever going to hurt her.

 _How do you know that, Derek?_

She might just be right with that one.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position and flicks at the lamp on the nightstand, blinking into the blinding brightness.

They were fighting. _Again_. Arguing, like it's their nightly routine.

Which used to be. In New York.

 _Shit!_

The raised voices they exchanged last night rushes back to him like a sucker punch to his stomach, and he sees stars as jumps out of bed, literally and figuratively and slips into slippers.

"Addison! Addison?"

 **XXX**

The railings are cold beneath her hands as she clutches them tight, like the sharp chill of a snowman's head. She wraps her fingers around it firmly, clinging as if it were the last thread she's hanging onto above a rage of rapids before it snaps.

It always snaps. And she always falls.

Everything is always bound to break because nothing is forever.

She wonders if she should go back inside because it's become too cold now. Perhaps she should lift her head to the winter breeze, feel it one last time on her burning skin. But, she doesn't feel like moving even the slightest.

Everything hurts.

"Addison! Addison?"

His voice, sleep-roughened and oh-so loud, startles her. It's Derek. She's not mistaken. She rests her cheek on her knees, turning to face the open door with the last remnants of her strength.

His eyes finds her across the distance and she sees his face soften, and she's so thankful to see the lighter expression back on his face, after the concern that etched over his laugh lines. He disentangles himself, walks towards her and for a moment it's like no time has passed and it's like nothing is different, nothing even happened.

It's like a fist is squeezing it's way into her heart, robbing her of her breath.

"Addie." he acknowledges, sinks down to the patio perpendicular to her.

"Hi."

So polite. Everything is just so polite between them now, detached. _Almost so._ She misses the passion between them - sometimes more so than often - that fire that once burned so bright and all-consuming.

Until it consumed them both entirely, turned them to ice - not only her but him too - sharp shards that sliced and slashed until they had bled them dry. And then, they became quiet. Even to each other. They don't talk.

 _Especially to each other, actually._

"It's cold. Come back inside."

She doesn't respond, doesn't even bother to give him a nod or a shake of her head and just presses a thumb to the glass she's been holding, watches the print pearl against the cold surface.

She should go inside. She might just freeze to death here. But she breathes out here better than she does in there.

Besides this just reminds her of Christmases at the Shepherds, a traditions that withstood career changes and moves, significant others and jealousies and marriages and break-ups, babies and miscarriages and divorces - of course, the Shepherds are forever holding strong.

 _Forever together._

And then, she just remembers, she's not a true Shepherd.

But a lump sits thick in her throat and she swallows hard, trying to push down the melancholy.

It doesn't matter.

She feels his eyes on her, the way he still worries about her, even now, but her gaze is a dull stare, fixed away off yonder on one of the patches in the dawning. "Actually, I was hoping to be alone." she said, as sharply as the bitter wind that clipped at their cheekbones.

She hates that she has to do that - push him away, want him to hate her again because he's not giving it up and neither is he giving up on her.

"Yeah ... well, I _did_ too." his voice is gruff and her heart thumps painfully against her ribs at the statement.

She knows what he means and thinks how their lives would've been so different now if she hadn't had been so impulsive in giving her life up in New York for this one.

Her eyes flicks back towards him, gaging the familiarity of his tousled hair, and she lets his words, the ones he spat at her in their most recent quarrel, run around and around, biting and nipping at her loose skin. Not because they hurt. But because Derek had managed to reach in and seize hold of the part that she's hardly wanted to admit to herself. And it's now buzzing louder and louder, along with their argument, along with words she'd screamed and those he questioned.

There's one way to make them quiet in her head. But just as she was about to speak, apologise, he shifts away and her heart lodges itself into her throat, her stomach dropping to her feet and she catches his fingertips before he could disappear back into the trailer. "I'm sorry." she chokes, "I - it's okay."

She manages to nod and leaves it at that. There isn't much else to say, silence creeps between them once more.

His fingers closes on her thumb. Holding on to her. He stands, shivering under the billions stares of the stars above. "What?" he says, brows high in confusion.

"I know - things have been - with what happened ... if you don't want me here ..." she takes a shaky breath. "I'll pack and go."

"Addison." he says firmly. _How can she think that? How can she not?_ "I ... of course I don't want you to leave."

She stares at him blankly.

"I don't want you to leave." he says again, "I don't want you to go. Don't leave ... Please. Okay?"

He runs his thumb gently along her cheekbone, mindful of the bruise that glistens with streaks. If he let her go again, he won't know what will happen to her. He can't keep her safe, then. She'll hurt herself again. She's not as strong as she plays out to be.

"You can ... blame me, hate me ... push me all you want, Addie ... believe that I am the one who wants you to leave. But one day when this _will_ tear your heart to pieces, I will be by your side, to care for you ... I just want what's best for you, always."

 _Always._

He's just constantly feeling like somebody needs to pay for what they did to her.

She shakes her head as she gets up, turning her palm into his. "It's not like that." she says, giving his hand a gentle tug. The parallel isn't lost on her.

"Derek, I'm fine."

"It's funny ... the way you think I don't know about the mind games you like to play."

 **XXX**

 _She was silent, unmoving as they continued existing without acknowledging the other's presence, her temple presses against the wall on her side. He wonders what she's thinking; it's easier to analyse her movements than to visit the trauma wanting to play in his own mind._

 _Because he can only imagine and his mind has done that so cruelly._

 _Maybe she's fallen asleep. He hopes for that more than anything else. For her mind to get at least some momentary reprieve from the endless parade of what-ifs, what-happened, recriminations and blame-laced thoughts that are sure to be inundating her._

 _But her eyes are open and she blinks, her eyes suddenly swimming with unshed tears._

 _She's not about to cry._

 _"Derek." she inhales deeply and in frustration, a warning, stopping him just when he was about to break their mutually agreed silence._

 _"Leave it alone." she says through gritted teeth._

 _"Addie."_

 _She must know he can't do that._

Has she forgotten that he's the same guy who can't ever let things go, even though he said he'll try and give their marriage a chance?

 _He still hasn't really forgiven her. Not yet. He don't think so but he won't let her know that._

 _She closes her eyes, like a child trying to hide._ But is there even a place that she feels safe and comfortable anymore? _"Nothing happened." she says, and her voice is so small it makes his stomach ache._

 _"Addison, look -"_

 _"- No. No, you look, Derek," she expels every word carefully, slowly, flips tiredly to face him, "You don't really want to know the truth." she glances at him, shaking her head. Letting him know the answer beforehand._

 _"I do." he swallows._

 _Only he doesn't really._

 _"Really?" And she makes a non-committal noise under her breath,_ _"Okay. It goes something like this ... he bought me drinks. I got drunk. Then, I went home with him."_

 _She's sounds like she's teasing him, testing a reaction out of him, but what scares him the most is that she also doesn't._

She went home with him.

 _He moves to catch her hand in his, but the minute his fingers touch her skin, she pulls away, like liquid fire had been burning at the pale flesh._

 _"You're lying. No. You're just saying that to piss me off."_

If so, it is working.

 _Her eyes says otherwise and he knows it, knows what she said_ _to be true._

 _She's yelling now. "Why would I lie, Derek? Huh? You wanted to know, right? So, I'm letting you know that I initiated it. I agreed. And people saw. It was me._ I consented _. So let it go, already. Please."_

 _She won't meet his face, her wavering body grasping for any semblance of control against any surface she can reach._

 _He moves forward, unable to utter a word, but simply places his hand against her shoulder._

 _The confession is grave and earnest, and it completely throws him in each directions. He's not sure how to react._

 _As quickly as it rose, his anger deflates, leaves the room only for the gaping emptiness within him that tries to swallow him whole._

 _"Please don't. Don't try to feel sorry for me." she pleads, doesn't know what she's pleading for. "It was my fault."_

 _The lump sits thick in his throat, his eyes brimming with tears that he desperately tries to suppress._

 _He's not angry. He's just really disappointed and hurt and he feels sick at the way she said she had consented._

 _She makes it sound like she hadn't really._

 _"Did you ask him to stop?" he questions, even though he doesn't really want the answer. "Did you say no?"_

 _She pulls her hand out of his grip, covering her eyes with her forearm._

 _He's hardly listening to her._

 _"Just let it go. Let it go." she chokes. "Please, Derek."_

How can she ask him to ignore it?

 _He takes a slow, horrified breath as the realisation dawned on him._

She said no.

 _She said NO._

 _Addison won't look at him._

 _He also won't look at her._

 _"It's not your fault." he manages, his voice stilted._

 _He doesn't want her to think he's angry at her for picking up a guy, because he isn't, not really ... not exactly. (_ Okay, maybe he is. _A little._ But not entirely _.) But he is so angry at the situation that he can't keep it out of his words._

 _"Yes, it is." she counters. "So, please - I'm fine. I promise."_

 _Her smile looks terrifying, he thinks. A wobbly, off balance grin that further convicts the notion that she's anything but fine and he winces at how painful that must be for her to muster._

 _He wants to point out that this most likely wouldn't have happened if he hadn't told her what he had at Joe's._

 _He wants to point out that she went out and got drunk and picked up a stranger and went back to his place, so fine is probably not really an accurate description of her current state._

 _He wants to point out that he's actually angry. Angry that she had all the intentions of cheating. Angry that she put herself in that position. Angry that he couldn't have stopped it. Angry that there's nothing he would have been able to do because it had already been done. He's angry at himself and to some extent, he's at fault here too. But that's harder to admit than to divert this deep coursing burn back at the source._

Addison.

 _"Did he use protection?"_

 _And the second he ends his sentence with a question mark, it's already too late because she freezes and he hears a strangled cry tore itself from her lungs._

Shit!

 **XXX**

The sky is lighter now, but the sun has not risen yet. It is too early to be awake when half of the planet isn't, too cold to be sitting outside at all, so he convinces her to come back inside when a wash of concern overturns him as she starts to shiver and chatter loudly.

She nods, no protest. He's greatly thankful.

He closes the front door behind her, instant warmth engulfs them, and he sets the glass she was holding on the kitchen counter, watching, but pretends not to, as she limps towards the couch.

His heart is crying.

"You want some coffee?" he asks, not used to feeling so ill at ease in their home.

When people are upset the cultural convention is to bring them hot beverages.

 _Right?_

She smiles at him, tentatively lowering herself onto the couch. "Coffee would be great." she says. Her voice is scratchy and it's uneasy when she swallows what feels like a bowl of splinters.

It's painful, he thinks, the discomfort is there but she's doing a splendid job in hiding it. A momentary cringe that'd definitely be missed by the other person. And if it wasn't for the fact that he's known almost everything about her, known her for over a decade now, then he too wouldn't know what to look out for.

He can still hear the echoes of her screams.

Just screaming - panicked, desperate, agonising wails. It was like she wasn't even there, wasn't present in time, like she had no idea what was happening.

She's resilient, mighty resilient, which at times can be a crossover to hardheaded - _yes, she can be stubborn_ \- and that's one of her best qualities. But then, even the strongest person has a breaking point.

"Derek," she choked. It's high with panic. "Derek, the door, the door ..."

"It's okay. It's locked. No one's going to come in." he had told her gently with a smile he tried to muster, to do anything in his power to make her feel safe and comfortable.

He thought he wanted to know what had happened tonight.

He thought he should ask her.

He thought she'd only cry, then.

He thought he'd cry too.

Still, as her husband, he should know.

"Windows?"

"All locked. I double checked." he carelfully pulled her hand up to his lip and kissed it. "Now close your eyes."

 _Will she ever feel safe again?_

She nodded. She avoided his eyes, then turn to face the wall.

Actually, he didn't know what to expect, how to react, what to say, what not to say, what to do when she said she can still feel her assailant.

He was taken aback to say the least.

 _I can still feel him and I don't know what to do ..._

He don't too and don't know if there can even be a model response to that.

 _What do you say when your wife tells you that?_

So, he just wrapped his hand around hers and apologised, told her he's sorry because he really is, told her to take deep breaths because she can't, told her he's sorry again because he broke his promise of always protecting her.

She was shaking against him, barely making a sound and he wiped his tears with the back of his hand. "You're safe. You are safe, Addison. No one is going to hurt you." he says gently, kissing her temple.

She tensed, then. He don't think she relaxed for even a second tonight.

"It's all going to be okay." _God, he hopes so._ "It's all okay now."

"You don't know that."

 _Well ... yeah_ , she's right, he does not. But he reassure her again anyway.

And now, this irk deep in his belly is still very much identical to that one. _Same_. No relief. No difference. No lessening. No control. No more normalcy.

Not that he was ever anything but normal.

Maybe he also should make her something to eat because he knows for a fact that she hasn't eaten any dinner. They had plans to. A nice, not-too-fancy, Addison-approved restaurant. But, of course, he had plans of his own.

He doesn't even know what she likes in her sandwich anymore.

He's forgotten.

 _Turkey? Chicken? Peanut butter? Jam_? _Peanut butter and jam?_

He doesn't remember.

"I made some toast too." he murmurs, their whole home hushed in the aftermath. "Can you try to eat?"

She doesn't respond. Just stares for moments too long at the plate in his hand until she panics because she's been silent and a statue and Derek is standing and staring. She wants to speak

 _Say something! Anything so he wouldn't think you've gone mute and crazy!_

They all become a blur in front of her eyes, then she shakes her head - _no_ \- shaking and taking deep breaths to go back to her normal self, one that's not panicky, jumpy and whinny.

 _Normal. Just normal._

"Addie, you've gotta eat."

"I will." she promises. "I'm just not that hungry right now. But you should eat."

He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how not to argue with her, how to help her.

It's so like her to be thinking about everyone else but herself in a crisis. Granted, it's selfless, and that's a good thing, but sometimes he wishes she'd be more selfish, so he'd not have to worry about her.

She's been calm - so calm, too calm - and in control, and somewhat normal, like nothing had happened and that, itself, he thinks is utterly terrifying. Because it wasn't like this.

 _Oh goodness, no._

Because it wasn't this quiet.

This is pleasant even.

Because it took real strength, courage and patience and a whole lot of kicking, shouting and shoving to get her to calm down.

She blinks, lingering in the momentary darkness and through the blankness, she hears him set the plate down on the coffee table and feels him easing down beside her on the couch, his thigh pressing against her right knee.

Nails bites into her palms, crescents bleeding into her flesh, crying, screaming red as her skin numbs with the hurt to fight, coerce her into staying calm and collected.

 _Normal. Normal. Calm. Calm._

"Thank you, Derek." she smiles then, thinking he'd take a hint and get back up, be anywhere else but here, watching and infiltrating her breathable space with his, because instead of doing all those she'd hoped he'd do, he only shifts closer, moving to tug her into his space. But she reaches for the cup of coffee on the table just in time to avoid him. She needs a distraction, an accessory to keep all things physical to a bare minimum.

She doesn't want to worry him. Doesn't need for her to cause more trouble. Doesn't want to be not in control over her body anymore. Doesn't want him to watch her freak out again.

Peering over the edge of the mug, Derek, who must now know what she was trying to do, is half a person away, still too close in her opinion - _but, hey, who's asking_ \- still watching her and their equally worn out blues stumbles upon each other.

She looks away just as quickly.

The zap of emotions and memories that floods her are just too forceful, too much for one night.

She studies the contents in the mug, the aroma shoots straight up her nose and it's heavenly, though she can't exactly feel it's warmth in her palms. It's a small thing to care about given that she had been lingering outside for most of the night. But she'd always loved the way her morning cup would warm her hands, especially in weathers like this, when the wind gnawed at the skin.

She takes a sip, and although it was no longer scalding, it still burned her frozen lips.

It is bitter too.

 _When did coffee taste so different?_

 _Did she say that out loud or had her voice been stolen by the wind?_

"It's a different blend." It's instant and not the French press she usually drinks because they're all out of the grounds she likes. Besides he doesn't have the time to wait for it to brew. "I'll stop by the store later to pick up the ones you like."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. I want to."

She nods. _Okay_. He smiles sadly as he continues to study her, like she's a math problem he cannot solve. She knows what he's thinking and her answer will still be no.

Always be the same. _No_.

He reaches to touch her cheek, then seems to think better of it. "How are you feeling?" he asks and she shrugs.

She isn't sure she's really feeling at all.

Perhaps just going through the motions. One moment at a time.

She will be fine ... if Derek would just keep _this_ between them, like it's just one of those things that happened and doesn't matter, ergo speaking about it to someone is irrelevant.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear to calm and shifts back, reaching for the plate of toast. She isn't too sure what her craze about wanting Derek's attention was all about because here he is, giving her what she've always wanted, and she now absolutely detests it. "I'm fine. Split with me?" she asks, already nudging one of the triangles toward him.

 **XXX**

She's recovering from something traumatic, he reminds himself. She went though a terrible experience, but she's fine. Or ... she's going to be.

She looks fine, though.

A little rough around the edges but then again, his wife's manipulative.

 _She will be fine._

He just wishes he could believe that.

He's disappointed in her, more in himself, though. So disappointed that he can't look in the mirror.

He is looking at her like she's the last baby bird in a fallen nest and her hand twitches to fling the bitter drink in his face, so as to melt that look of concern right off.

But she doesn't.

It's enough already. He's just too over the top concerned now. She's uncomfortable of the eyes that's boring into her skin, even if it's only Derek's.

"You're staring."

She hangs her head so her hair falls in front of her face.

She hides.

He leans in the empty space beside her, his elbow against the back of the couch, so close that she can feel the heat of his body, like an ember from the flames in his eyes.

"Addison?"

She needs nothing more than hearing her name as a question to know what he's really asking and yet she reads his tone of worry and hurt that he knows it's more than panic.

"We don't have to go to Seattle Grace."

He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it. She wants to shout at him. It's nothing about people they work with finding out, it's not. And she doesn't want to have to explain herself again.

She'll ignore he said that like he ignores her all the time.

"It's good." she nods, takes another small bite and swallows hard, giving him a tiny smile that he thinks is intended to be reassuring.

"It's toast." he says as matter of fact. He's so stressed he can barely taste the half she's given him.

It feels wrong and uncomfortable and unfair, talking to her like this. Treating her like a child. But she is so fragile right now, so hurt, so lost. He's not sure how else to talk to her.

The voice is so soft and sweet, like a desperate plea. "Can we talk a little bit, Addie?" At the end, she thinks she hears a sound as if someone had thrown a stone at the window.

Quickly she looks for the shatterd glass.

 _Nothing._

She presses a hand to her lips - _she's hearing things too now?_

Because she cannot be crying again.

She was doing so good. So so good that for two seconds, right there, she had really really forgotten about tonight.

"Look at me."

Her muscles are crunched tense. She doesn't want to look at him. She can't look at him. He will see, her secret will be there, scored in her eyes. Safe enough from a roomful of detectives, but not from the gaze of the man whom she loves. But she doesn't have the energy to resist him when he cups her chin and twists it for himself, forcing their eyes together.

She wishes he was still shouting at her, she wishes he would grab her, shake her, scream at her, storm out, like before.

Anger, she knows how to deal with.

 _It's easier._

It is his kindness that she cannot handle, the shattered glass in his own voice that splits through her skin. She has never deserved his devotion, his concern. And now all she wants to do is get rid of him so she can go and hurt herself again. She tells herself, to sooth the tearing guilt, that he doesn't need to know. It won't hurt him if he doesn't know.

But she knows that's a lie because he doesn't have a clue, and it's hurting him anyway.

She wipes hers clean and prays she is strong enough to hide it. Derek sighs, his grip loosening and thumb brushing along the line of her jaw. "You don't have to hide from me anymore. I know ... so please don't hide from me." he almost whispers, but she doesn't speak the words that spin around her mind.

 _Yes I do, Derek. I do have to hide, because if I tell you what - You will stop loving me, then. And you can't stop, not yet._

She doesn't know why he hasn't already.

"No secrets, okay, Addie?"

Looking over his head so she doesn't have to see his twisting guilt at the sight of her tears, because she's the one that needs to be sorry.

Her face is warm over wet. She doesn't reply.

She wants to wipe away her tears before he sees them, but she doesn't even have the energy to lift her hand.

He keeps coming back and she pushes him away, over and over. Or maybe it's she who keeps coming back and begs to be forgiven.

Maybe it's time he stopped. Maybe it's time she did too.

She's so confused.

She wants to scream. She wants to rip the crease in his forehead away with her hands. She wants to throw his coffee into the sink and break every dish in this ... thing. But it isn't desperate pleas or snarling rage that erupted from her. It's a calm that seeps like a wisp of smoke from her lips.

"Please."

Half an hour ago, her hands were on the rails outside, thinking about the cliff that's a hike away. She was ready to drag herself there, thinks she remembers the route - _how hard can it really be?_ She was ready to haul herself up and drop down to the other side.

She was ready for the end.

She wants to storm out, and this time, she will not allow him to pull her back in, but it was like the floor had frozen around her feet. She can't even tear her eyes away from the worry knitted onto his features, worry that made no sense.

Something in her crumpled, falling between her hands and pooling to the cushion. "Please leave me alone." Hot shame fills her like lava at the hitched plea, but the tears were already leaving a path along her numb cheeks.

"No."

A sob burst from her and she gasped, struggling with the air that certainly would freeze the rest. She slumps against the armrest, the wrong side, a fist crushed against her mouth to hold in her cries.

She isn't allowed to cry, she isn't allowed to cry.

 _Sheissntallowedtocry_.

She can't fight any more. She can barely even keep herself breathing. "Derek." It fell from her lips as gentle as the flakes of snow that were beginning to drift from the morning clouds. It fell into the lake of coffee that had tumbled from her hand.

She turns to him with silent tears creeping from her eyes.

"Please. Derek."

It is a bad idea. A terrible idea to look at him. He can't fix her and she is only going to drag him in deeper, knock him down harder when she is gone. But she had already let him linger in her life for too long.

He's her husband.

"Okay. I'll go. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you really want." he strokes the back of her hand with his thumbs, "I'll go but you have to give me a reason why."

More tears spill. She can't stop them.

 **XXX**

His hand is too heavy against her cheek but the last thing she's going to do is tell him to move. Somehow, she is entirely enfolded in his arms.

She's tired.

His hands are everywhere at once, sweeping through her hair, holding hers, brushing away her tears. He won't hurt her. Not in _that_ way at least.

Her breath catches and she forces her eyes open. "So, can _I_ go home instead?"

There's an edge of desperation in her voice that he can't turn away from. "Please, Derek, can I go home now?" she adds on a breath.

She watches him hesitate, blinking in confusion. With each moment, she feels the ball of fear and grief in her throat grow but the sliver of doubt creeps under her skin as she searches his eyes.

"Addie."

It's that sound he makes, where he draws out the last syllable a little. He's trying to be rational and she can't argue with him and storm out if he's decided that now, today and right now, is the right time to be logical.

"Please?"

It was more of a whimper than a question.

"Home?" he asks, nodding at the trailer they're living in. "But you _are_ home, Addie ... with me."

 _Home is where your husband is._

 _Right?_

He looks into her eyes, had forgotten how much he always loved looking into them. So wide, so rich, so beautiful. Sometimes they shine bright like a sapphire, but today they are almost as pale as she is.

She hates that she can feel the tears slipping over onto her cheeks, running along the lines of his fingers. "Then why doesn't it feel that way."

He don't know too.

 **XXX**

 _His heart won't stop racing. He can't let it go. He can't let him get away with a crime so heinous. He can't follow along and pretend nothing has happened._

 _He can't. He can't._

Does she really expect him to just forget and ignore?

 _Panic is clawing at him as he paces, fists at his hair, it's ripping at his heart, tearing apart in his ribcage to do anything but fight and yell at his wife because if anything, he should know better._

 _There's just so much ... He can't breathe, gulps for air and reaches for his phone._

 _Addison stops, she quietens then, flaming red and furious and inevitably she must realise what he's about to do._

 _"Derek."_

 _It's more of a breath than a voice, shocks him more so than the malevolent ticking time bomb that is her outbursts and mood swing._

 _"What are you doing?"_

 _He stares at her. Her eyes are so wide with fright and he wonders if it was because of him or maybe it was already there since she stumbled back into his life._

 _It's same terrified eyes he last saw in New York._

 _"I'm calling the cops, Addie."_

 _His voice is raspy, raw with desperation. She's looking at him with those wide eyes, that piercing intensity, swirls of colour like a nebula._

 _"If you can't help yourself, I'm helping you."_

 _Her mouth falls open, no sound in the gasp that falls from her mouth, and he squeezes the phone in hand, means it with every fibre of his being, forlorn and urgent and hopeful in spite of it._

 _"I can't - I can't ... I can't let him walk free, Addison. You might, but I definitely can't. He needs to be punished. When a crime's been committed, justice needs to be served. I can't let him get away with what he's done to you. He's hurt you and you don't want to do anything about it. I - I can't understand that and I am not going to sit here and watch you punish yourself."_

 _He knows his wife and her self-sabotaging persona. She's basically a ticking time bomb that he'll be waiting to explode, lodging shrapnel in collateral damage. She'll come to, realising only when it's too late already._

 _"Addison."_

 _Her name echoes between them and she doesn't look up her the cup she's been fiddling with._

 _"Addison?"_

 _She needs nothing more than to hear her name as a question to know what he's really questioning, and she can read it in his frown of worry and hurt that he knows it's more than panic._

 _"Are you done."_

 _She asks but it doesn't sound like a question._

 _"Are you done with that speech? Done feeling sorry for yourself because you can't be the hero here, huh?"_

 _She breaks then. Covers her face with her hands and breaks down, shoulders racking._

 _It was just so random, so innocuous because they've been shouting at each other for the last half hour with no path to tears and now, here she is, sobbing into her palms._

 _It was a statement so precarious she choked on a mirthless laugh that sounded more like a cry, hid her face so deep into her hands that he steps to pry her hands away._

 _She tries to fist at his grip, but he only holds on tighter._

 _"Let go, Derek."_

 _She tries, pushes at his chest this time._

 _He's getting angrier, annoyed maybe, and reaches for an arm. His fingers clasping around twig-like so tight, blood circulation is bound to halt._

 _It's rough. It's familiar._

He won't hurt her. Derek wouldn't do _that_ to her. It's just pushing her around, he's done that plenty before. She can't help but feel as though he might - he can, he could, he would. She don't know ... anyone could.

 _"Let go of me." she hisses and tries to wrestle. He pulls her closer, trying to stop her from shoving him away._

 _"Let_ go _. Let go."_

 _She titters on verge of panic, helplessly twisting as he still doesn't let go. It's like before. "Derek!" she screams and flinches before she can stop herself, a gasp falling from her lips that she fumbles feebly to catch it._

 _He lets go, then, as if her arms were oozing venom._

 _He doesn't apologise and she doesn't wait for one either. Her hand circles around the red that's beginning to raise on her wrist and arms and wishes for it not to bruise in the morning._

 _She has had enough of those._

 _His fingers gently tips at her chin, tugging upwards until she looks up at him._ Gentle eyes, she notes. _So not like the force he was gripping her with only seconds prior._

 _"Addison -" he murmurs._

 _"- Don't." she jerks away._

 _"He could do this to someone else."_

 _"I said don't."_

Did that someone else even thought about her?

 _Because she don't think she was his first._

 _"Addie, if you don't report this - There are other women to think about here."_

 _She's not sure if she could ever forgive herself if it were ever to come to that. Other women doomed into the same fate as her because she's too ... ashamed, embarrassed and confused to face hers._

 _She wants to clamp her hands over her ears, she doesn't have to hear any of this. But then again, guilt is a useless emotion and she loves how it self-destructs when time comes._

 _It's a risk she's willing to take._

 _"There's no shame. It's not your fault. You need support, counselling, professionals to talk to. You need - If you try to keep this a secret, it is going to eat you alive. I know it."_

 _"How?" she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly and she presses further, "How do you know that? You ever been violated? Has anybody ever_ raped -"

 _Even she startles at the word. The R-word. She stops breathing even. It's just a word but her eyes still widens and she has to cover her surprise, shame with hands in tremor. It's the first time she's acknowledged it, said it out loud and in secret too. It doesn't feel any better, just feels like she's carved into her skin deeper than she's intended to._

 _"Addie." he looks hopeful now, a glimmer of calm before the storm in his eyes, as he attempts to hold her hands, like now that she's said it out loud, admitted, everything will be fine and dandy and they will walk into the station tomorrow, hand-in-hand and that's that._

 _She shrugs away, ducks somewhere also. She wants to break him too. Break him so he's a shattered mirror. There's not nearly enough broken people in this home._

 _"You really want to know what it feels like." It wasn't a threat but a promise. A challenge. "Let me tell you what it's like..."_

 _She exhales hard, frustrated, her breath shaky, but she just blurts, stopping him from stopping her when he opens his mouth. She babbles without a second thought because she is in control here. She is in control of her mind and body._

She is. She is the one who's in control here.

 _"It's filthy and dirty and he shoves you onto his bed before you even start to comprehend in your head what's happening to you. And when your brain stops short circuiting, your arms, legs, voice, everything becomes useless. Your body isn't even your body anymore._ _And you tell yourself that it's not what it is but you don't even believe you, of course. And then, he screws his knee into your back because he can, because that makes you struggle more and he likes feeling you squirm underneath. But then, you stop because you realise he won't be so rough if you'd just not move at all and wait." she breathes between words, "And it feels like hours when it's only mere minutes. It's sweaty and disgusting and he licks your face and wipes himself off in your hair. Then, he goes at you again, ripping stuff you didn't know you had, since he so enjoyed it the first time." she blinks, breathing heavily and her eyes are suddenly swimming with unshed tears as she stares at him._

 _He looks horrified now._

 _She knows it's bad when he gets really quiet. When the weight of his sorrows, his worry, anger, disappointment just gets too much and he sinks within himself, drained of everything that makes him, him._

 _She's broke him._

 **XXX**

His fingers curl around hers, his thumb brushing across her knuckles and it's soft and innocent and so familiar that her skin tingles and she aches with a yearning she's believed had long been lost.

And it has, for too long, it has but he's so gentle right now, she thinks he might just be back for good this time. And if not, it'll just always be there, a reminder, to haunt her until the day she dies.

It's such a strange feeling ... to be both averse to touch and to be craving it.

She neither pull away - _thank, God_ \- nor does she return his grip. So, he tighten his again instead, pulling their hands onto his lap and inching himself to the very edge of the seat so their knees brush one another. He wraps his other hand around her, so just one of hers is tangled inside his and pulls her closer.

 _Oh, yes_ , it is strange, because there's this part of her that's two seconds from curling, crumbling and shattering, just breaking into salty droplets that'll ask him to let go of her hand - she can't do any more of those screams - and there's the other that just doesn't want him to move at all, not because movements frightens her but because she's clinging onto the last of him too, begging to not let go of the tight hold he has on her hand, to love her even past this.

She's forever tainted and dirty.

She knows, she knows it will be difficult for him to. She knows and she's sorry, she gets it.

She didn't mean for it to happen.

 _Or did she?_

His lips and the scruff of his stubble brushes her cheek as he speaks. "I didn't mean to yell at you." he says quietly. "Before. I shouldn't have said - I'm so sorry."

She almost laughs at him then, because she's not five and she, sure as hell, can handle being yelled at.

 _Sure. Of course!_

Of course, she has had her fair share of being yelled at in the past.

Yesterday. This morning as well.

 _And of course, by Derek nonetheless._

But there's something about the hunch of his shoulders and the quiver of his voice that stops her from doing just that - he's serious, more stern and dour than she has ever seen him.

"I wasn't thinking. I was angry - I don't - It wasn't your fault."

She starts to protest because - of course it was her fault. It was her fault. He even said that it was.

It was. It was. It was only her fault.

He said it and that hurt too much for her to even come up with words in her head to speak. Maybe she winced or whimpered, she can't remember. And those spitting words wouldn't have stung and burned as much as it did if it wasn't Derek's.

He shouted. She racked like an autumn leaf.

He pitched a glass across the room. She couldn't help but cry out at the resounding shatter.

He cursed, apologised. She flinched, hid behind large hands.

He shook his head, backing away - boots crunching on the broken glass. She cried harder.

He yanked the door open and stumbled out. She was alone again.

 _You put yourself in that situation, Addison!_

She knows.

She shakes her head because she knows.

But his thumb presses into the soft hollow behind her ear, stilling her. "I didn't mean what I said, okay?"

 _Okay?_

She wants nothing more than to believe that. Oh, she does want to believe what he had said has no arguable value.

 _Don't look at my behavior or my words, they don't really mean anything._

It's dodging the bullet.

 _But doesn't every single behaviour or word has meaning?_

In other words, we always do and say with intention. Subconsciously, perhaps, but nevertheless, there is intention behind every little word and action.

He rubs his hands over his face, ashamed. "I didn't mean it, Addie."

 _Give me a chance to explain._

They stare at each other in the darkness. The silence lays on her skin like poison. Seeping into her blood and paralysing her brain from any thoughts and actions. There's a tremor in her hands, though.

 _You put yourself in that situation, Addison! You put yourself in that situation, Addison! You put yourself in that situation, Addison!_

His eyes shining with tears and fear, "You believe me, right?" he says in a whisper and presses his palm to her cheek. She leans into it, closing her eyes again.

She don't know what to believe because often when we say something to hurt someone, we really are revealing a fraction about how we feel.

She doesn't know what to say.

"Addie -"

 _You put yourself in that situation, Addison! You put yourself in that situation, Addison! You put yourself in that situation, Addison!_

She doesn't believe him. But she thinks she should force herself to because then, they wouldn't have anymore elephants in the room to distract them from moving forward.

"Please." And his breath lodges in his throat, and he becomes desperate. He grasps at her hand and presses her ice fingers against his lips.

 _Please, Derek. Please. Please._

"I'm sorry." he murmurs against her fingers, his voice taking on a hint of apprehension, a hint of fear, a hint of something he has actually never felt before. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It didn't mean anything."

 _Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, okay?_

He collapses against her, too exhausted and overwhelmed with everything on his shoulders to hold himself vertical and he embraces her, arms taut around her and she still doesn't move or say a word. He's never before felt so many emotions attacking him all at once and from all directions. Her guilt and pain and depression are agonising, but he can't help feeling grateful, feeling relieved, that she has not pulled away.

 _You put yourself in that situation, Addison! You put yourself in that situation, Addison! You put yourself in that situation, Addison!_

She doesn't speak, her eyes staring out over the window past him. His words are in a loop.

She put herself in that situation.

"Addison." he pleads, a shudder overcoming his voice. "Addie, please. You have to forgive me."

 _You have to give me a chance to show you how sorry I am._

But she remains mute. Her eyes remain still and unmoving, and her hand is too loose in his grasp.

He presses her fingers to the corner of his eyelids, watching her reaction as his tears washes over her fingers. Her stoic expression only drives his desperation further, more tears induced to fall and more heartbreaking sobs released from his throat.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. I shouldn't have thrown the glass. I shouldn't have said anything at all tonight. I shouldn't have let you go. I'm sorry."

He presses frantic kisses against the skin of her palm, pushes his wet lashes against her cheek, whimpers his frantic apologies against her skin.

 _We don't quit!_

"It's okay." she says, her jaw clenches to stop her voice from crying too. She has to say that it is, so he'd stop this.

She don't think he's heard her.

"It's okay." she says again, brushes her free hand against his damp cheek and he looks up at her, then.

She tries to smile at him.

"It's not." he says, "I don't - I'm not - I didn't mean it ... Okay?"

"Okay." she quirks her lips up to a faint smile and can almost picture him forcing a smile back.

He sighs, "Okay." he repeats and leans in further towards her. He shakes his head, then presses his forehead to hers. "You are everything to me." he whispers. _She is_. She does mean the world to him and it's taken him _here_ to remind him of that. "You're my wife ... and it's killing me - that you were _hurt_ , and I - I couldn't have helped you and I just want to - Addie ..."

"It's okay, Derek." she tries. It's hard to get the words out. "It's okay. I forgive you. I do."

 _I do._

Her hand cups the back of his head, letting him burrow into her neck with his fingers curled tight onto the knobs of her shoulders.

 _Derek_. She look at the man she loves, her eyes blinking through the sheen of tears, roving, taking in the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the lingering, pink rawness of his skin; the unchanged, deep-sea blue of his eyes, the unwavering belief he still has in her.

She doesn't believe him. But she will get there.

He promises into her hair, he won't pressure her into reporting this. He promises because he knows, after what he's seen today, that she can't handle the discomfort and magnitude of an investigation. Or perhaps it is him too. _Maybe_. _Most likely_. It's only going to hurt her more and he can't do that to her. He just can't.

He wouldn't want her to be exposed like that. Not again.

He's talking. She hears him. He sounds forlorn and hopeful both, and she feels torn asunder, drowning in the pain and grasping at the proverbial straw.

 _He raped her._

He knows that and to a degree, he thinks she realises that too.

 _But a prosecutor? A jury?_

She's a married woman who picked up the guy and went home with him willingly and a defense attorney will tear her apart if they ever get that far. They'll bring up her history, and the drinking, and the Mark, and she can't - he can't make her go through that.

They'll bury her alive. They'll push her too far and she's the only one who's got something to lose here. And him too. He'll lose her.

He can't lose her again.

 _She's strong and resilient, but even the strongest person has a breaking point._

The tears are unstoppable now, running in silent rivulets down his cheeks. "I won't tell anyone but you have to let me help you." he swallows.

She nods. _Okay_. Her arms tightening around him, strong and solid around her ribcage as she cradles him to her, as she drew him nearer, fingers curling into the short strands of his hair at his nape, drawing circles onto the skin of his neck. He needs this, comfort, more than her.

She broke him.

 _Remember?_

Drawing promises from each other neither could make with words when forces beyond their control seem to be determine to rip them apart.

 _Okay._

A subdued Derek is hard to take, hurts her heart in a deep, visceral way that makes it hard to breathe. She feels helpless in the face of it, wants to take his burdens from him and has to accept that sometimes, she just can't.

She looks at him, at his beautiful eyes, just inches from hers. She breathes in his scent, feels his fingers stroking her cheek.

"I just want to be there for you." he says, "Please, Addie."

She smiles and it brings just the tiniest spark of joy to what has to be one of the darkest days of his life.

"I'm afraid all the time." she admits, so quietly she isn't sure he'll be able to hear her.

He nods. _That's a start_. She can feel him swallow a sob.

He looks smaller somehow, even with the gorgeous head of curls that adds volume to his height, slouched in her arms, and continues to draw absently on his skin. "Der." she hums softly, her cheek pressing to his and she can feel the prickle of his stubble against the sensitive curve of her jaw. He covers her hands with his, feels heavy when he leans the weight of his head against her, like any last ounce of energy has been sapped from him.

They stay like that for long moments, quiet and motionless with only the steady ticking of the large clock and his slow, burdened breathing breaking through the silence. But he's holding on to her like she is his dry land, and while she knows that it's something he'll have to work through on his own, at least she's there, at least she can be his rock, steady him like he has done for her countless times. It's one of the most precious gifts of love - the security and serenity of just being there.

"Addie …" he croaks and their eyes meet, and hold, his fingers tightening around hers, and she hears it hanging between them even though neither one of them will speak it out loud.

 _Always._

And then he drops his gaze, swallows so hard that she can see his Adam's apple bobbing, and she pulls her hand from his grasp, putting distance between them. She swipes the tears off her cheeks, gulps down a large swig to swallow the lump of sadness that is choking her, that may never dissipate again.

Nothing feels resolved. But at least he's still here. And he'll stay quiet - that's all the resolve she needs right now.

* * *

 ** _Thanks for reading! Took me longer than expected to update this chapter. Sorry for the wait. It's the most difficult chapter I've ever written. I had to really channel my inner Addison to see how'd she react. I think I am close. I don't know. What do you think? I'd like to know if my hardwork is worth it. Please leave a_ _review! REVIEW!_**


	4. Your Body isn't Your Body Anymore, Addie

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 ** _Chapter Four_**

Your Body isn't Your Body Anymore, Addie.

* * *

 _. . .Only you can take responsibility for your happiness, but you can't do it alone. It's the great paradox of being human. . ._

-:-

 _ **January 2nd**_

He dreams of leaving, but never does.

He dreams of being appreciated in his own time, receiving a noble prize later in life.

He dreams of getting out.

He dreams of fog on the dark edge of a _cliff_ where hundreds of feet below the deep sea swells up against the rocks.

He dreams of Addison's tears.

He dreams of singing, he is a dreamer.

He dreams of opening his own practice again and a bar too, maybe.

He dreams of a family and her pale blue eyes. They never shine so dull before.

He dreams of anger and fright, sharp words and gentle caresses.

He dreams of calming narratives and he's stroking her hair, moving strands away from her face. And she stirs a little - isn't yet fully comfortable in his embrace, he understands.

He dreams of warmth over wet under his skin and whimpers in his ear that doesn't quite register.

 _I said stop._

He shoots up in bed, like he's heard a calibre, to Addison crying. Heart pounding ferociously, air not reaching his lungs and for a second, disoriented in the darkness, he thinks that maybe it's just another dreamless dream, that he's reliving his nightmare all over again.

 _Screaming. Screeching. Sobbing._

But he isn't dreaming this time.

And when he finally manages to really wake up, rubbing his eyes to adjust to their seemingly pitch perfect darkness, he finds her curled up in a ball beside him, crying.

He sees too many tears across her cheeks.

He sees eyeslids squeezing too tight.

He sees fists too stiff across her chest.

"No. Stop."

His stomach is churning, liquidising with her every cry, and he's desperate to get her out of there. _Now!_ And so, he leans in closer to her, bringing his hands to the knobs of her shoulders and shaking her the ever slightest.

"Addie."

"Get off me." she wails.

He, now, isn't too sure whom she was addressing that to. _Him or him_. Nonetheless he lets go.

"No. Stop." she sobs once more. "Get off me."

She's not screaming on the top of her lungs like yesterday, and somehow he thinks that makes everything much _much_ worse.

 _Should he prefer that she is?_

He reaches over to the nightstand and switches on the lamp. "Addison, please." he begs, tangling his hands in her hair, trying to figure out a way to wake her without scaring her. It's hardly possible, he thinks. "Darling, you're safe. Wake up, okay? Addie, you're okay. I've got you."

She wakes to gentle murmurs and eyes so scared and wide at her that she isn't sure if she ought to scream, but the sensation of the hand that's pushing her hair back away from her forehead is too nice to be frightened of, so she doesn't.

"Derek?" she chokes, "What ...?"

"It's okay." she hears, the voice warm and rich. "You're okay, Addie. You're safe."

She clings to it, to the sound of his voice.

"It was just a dream." he says gently, kissing her forehead. She tenses unintentionally and curses at herself, in her head too when she does, but finally relaxes and burrows into his chest.

 _Just a dream._

It doesn't feel like just a dream, though.

She's visibly shaking like a leaf against him and he instinctively tightens his arms around her, but she's barely making a sound now.

He thinks he can feel her tears soaking through his shirt - _oh, he definitely can._

"You're safe." he says, running his hands up and down her back. "It's all okay now. I promise."

 _What's that saying?_

 _Do not make promises you cannot keep._

She pushes away. Her eyes peels open again, a thin layer of sweat covering her skin. Derek's looking back at her, a soft smile on his face as his fingers continue to thread through her hair, then down her back.

"Sorry." she whispers, raking a hand down her face. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, don't be sorry. It's okay." he says, missing her warmth already and he tries to pull her close as he attempts to catch her hands but she grabs his first and pulls his palm up to her lips, kisses it.

"Go back to sleep." she says, her voice shaking. "I'm okay. I just need some water."

He watches her walk out of the room, heart aching.

 **XXX**

When she doesn't come back to bed, he pulls on a sweater and pads out into the adjoining room - the living room as Addison calls it.

He can't find her at first and that shouldn't be possible given the mere space in this trailer. And with that, he has a sudden moment of panic that she has left - that she's out wandering the freezing cold streets, alone and defenseless again.

He don't think he heard the door.

 _No, he's sure he didn't._

But then, he sees a foot sticking out from behind the couch.

She's sitting on the rug, back propped against the side of the couch, a mug clutched between her hands, her iPad propped against a pillow on her lap.

For a few seconds, he stands far enough away that she doesn't notice him, just watching her.

In the eerie light of the device, the almost fading bruises on her face are still so sickly purple and green to him.

She looks so tiny, so delicate.

That's not possible.

He's still so afraid she might shatter.

"Hey." he finally says and she cranes her head up at him and smiles.

"What are you doing up? You should go back to sleep." she whispers. "You have work in a few hours."

He ignores her and slides down to the floor beside her instead. He could say the same to her - he really would like her to take a few more days off, though. A month would be ideal.

But she insisted that she should. It will probably do good for her mentally too. To keep herself busy and distracted.

She has patients waiting for her after all.

She has to get past this because she's not the only person in the universe that's gone through this and live somewhat normally. This shouldn't halt her in living her life because if it does, she's letting him win, letting him gain control and power over her.

 _Okay._

But he tells himself to comply to whatever comforts her because there ought to not be any arguing since that will lead to raised voices. And raised voices will lead to panics and that in turn will lead to Addison crying and his inability to calm her, his impotency as a husband.

 _Okay._

He's close but not too close.

He glances at the mug in her hand, worried that there's more than just coffee in it. Absentmindedly, or maybe she has read his mind - they're halves of each other after all - she hands it to him, and he takes a sip, relieved to find that it's just cinnamon tea.

He doesn't ask what she was watching since she clearly didn't want him knowing. She had locked the device in hand the second she had met his presence.

They sit in silence on the floor, sharing a mug of tea.

He's exhausted, but something about the quiet and the darkness and her body beside him feels good and comforting like _before_. So, he leans his head back against the couch, then on her shoulder, letting her proximity relax him.

He's almost drifting off to sleep when she speaks. "Have you seen what's going on in Syria?"

The question pulls him up short, just a little bit. But he's very wide awake with confusion now.

Addison is brilliant - _of course, she is, without a doubt_ \- and curious, just almost too curious sometimes, but he's never known her to take an interest in current events, or international affairs. He didn't realise she'd been paying attention to the Syrian conflict at all.

He certainly hasn't. He's avoided any and all coverages of war, murders, mass shootings and kidnappings. Not that he doesn't care or doesn't want to, he's seen enough tragedy at the hospital almost everyday and so, he doesn't want to have to see more at home too.

He doesn't like the sight of bombed out buildings, can't bear hearing the chaos and the screams of people digging through rubbles, doesn't like to hear victims and survivors describing what they had been through.

"Uh, no." he says, warily, "I haven't really."

He's nervous, she hears it in his voice, sees it in his body language. She's selfishly glad she's not the only one that's not at ease here.

He studies her face, trying to figure out what she's doing, what she's thinking. He realises her stained cheeks are wet. "Addie." he whispers, reaching over to brush a tear away. "What are you doing?"

 _What the hell are you doing?_

She tightens her arms around her body, fingertips brushing against the ridges of her raised ribs beneath the fabric of her shirt. He's telling her that what she's doing isn't healthy.

 _Nicely. Subtly. Gently._

But she hears it. And she suppose it isn't, she just needed a distraction, a something to keep her mind busy, so she'd forget.

She shakes her head, shrugging away from him. _No_. She doesn't have an answer. For once, she has no plausible excuse to give him, nothing but the truth, that she can't spit out. "These poor kids." she says hoarsely. "It's all so senseless."

He watches as her eyes soften, another tear falling down her cheek. "Yeah." he holds her gaze, not sure what else to say.

"It's always the kids." she exhales and he watches her with so much worry stirring in his stomach that he thinks he might just hurl any second. Her eyes are fixated on the tiny screen, on the children, on the blood and carnage and destruction.

Gently, he pulls the tablet out of her hand, closes the cover, and he sees her almost protest. _Addison_. She sees his eyes pleading with her. _Okay_. Her face almost scrunches in defiant. Almost. She doesn't.

"Come on." his hand rubs calming, encouraging cirlcles on her back, "Come back to bed."

He's begging.

Nodding, her tongue darts out to wet her dry lips. Her eyes remain downcast, her bottom lip worried between her teeth, but she says nothing.

She takes his hand. She follows him.

 **XXX**

 _White. Pristine. Clean._

It's what greets her when she rushes into her patient's room for rounds, the anxious chatter inside falls to a low roar when her heels clunks haphazardly into the room and she can't help but feel weary, as though their gazes are snake venom poisoning her veins.

"Sorry. I was called to the pit last minute." she just barely manages to puff as she catches her breath. And she doesn't have to look at Derek to know that he's staring at her and she swallows, hopes he doesn't figure that that was a blatant lie.

These Manolos are definitely not designed for running, and she thinks she's just blistered her pinky and every other toe.

Everyone is still still and she swallows thickly, thinks there must be something on her face for them to be gawking, so she brushes her cheek with a palm, forcing herself to lift her head at them.

She knows that look they're all giving her. It's a knowing gaze ... which means Derek must have told them.

They all know.

 _How could you, Derek!_

Now it's her turn, she glares at him with so much betrayal and pain in her eyes - she trusted him to keep this a secret - but he only stares back at her, unreadable and straight faced, unlike hers.

The desperation wells up inside of her, weighing heavy against her rib cage. Her mind is racing in a thousand directions, playing forward each possible ending to this story in horrifying detail. This can't be happening, not now. Not when she's made it this far and has so much to lose.

"This is Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd, our neonatal surgical attending."

She hears her name being said and she's five seconds from running out of here. But then, Dr. Bailey starts presenting and she inadvertently blurts out an apology, one that was suppose to only be heard in her head.

"Sorry." she quickly says to counter the one that was said on impulse and she can see, then, everyone exchanging worried and confused glances at each other.

She knows what they're all thinking.

"I'm sorry." And she chuckles a little with her apology this time, doesn't even know why she did that. Now, she's thinking the same as everyone else, she sounds so dumb and stupid. "Please continue, Dr. Bailey."

 _Stupid! Stupid!_

And she does continue, not without casting her way hesitantly, though. She hears what the resident is explaining and she truly understands everything but it doesn't stick with her because all she's totally preoccupied on right now is Derek and Meredith and the enormity of space between them.

She sucks in a jagged breath to stop her heart and mind from overtly drowning in what's essentially her faulty thinking. But nevertheless the blade sticking into her chest twists and twists, deeper and deeper.

She bites her nails as she fixates on them, they don't touch at all, they don't even seem to acknowledge one another's presence but that's a moot point today.

 _He's fucking her again._

It's okay, she's okay.

But it's hard not to wonder or worry. Not to have regrets.

She fucked someone else too.

They're even now.

She knows she's not rational; god she wants to stomp her foot in irritation at herself, shake lose those lingering doubts that continue to nag her brain, let them lose in the breeze over the ocean, to scatter away with the wind.

But wanting isn't reality.

She sighs, the entirety of the hospital room looms over her, and she sees her patient for the first time in all the minutes she's been in here. Derek is talking and talking about the possibility of surgery - and she doesn't understand why because Mrs. Shaw is her patient. But the heaviness in her chest is like a tidal wave that's washing over her, and she's cottonmouth, can't voice out her concerns or her opinions.

Bailey's interns are listening and listening intently, she knows, she's still present, and she thinks with misplaced bitterness, that no one has an idea.

She continues to watch everyone else like a routine until all eyes are on her again and Derek's lips stops moving and she freezes when she thinks she hears Karev's voice close to her ear.

"You're up, Dr. Shepherd."

In fact they're all looking at her now.

Her heart clenches and she purses her lips, forcing the oxygen she's sucked in to rush through her nose, out her mouth.

It's okay, she's okay.

"Addison." It's Derek cutting through her thoughts now.

She blinks and blinks in confusion.

 _Was she asked a question?_

The intern to her left, whom she can't say she's worked with before but definitely has saved her life, shoulders her quite roughly and she flinches, body shifting forward too quickly, and she almost trips on her heels but Karev catches both of her arms before she could crack her head on the floor.

"Wow, there. Watch your step, Shepherd."

He's a death grip on her arms and she doesn't like it.

"Sorry." she says, quickly yanking herself away from him and she backs right into a cart. A loud crash, she startles and gasps loudly. "Sorry." she says, to no one. "Sorry."

" _Sorry_."

The frown of concern is back on Derek's face and he's looking at her as if she is no longer his wife, but a gruesome serial killer with a gun to a child's head.

"Dr. Shepherd, are you alright?"

Lying is exhausting, "I am - yeah." she sighs and offers Dr. Stevens a smile.

But she still looks to Derek to get her out of here.

* * *

 _ **January 11th**_

She's at her desk before five on most mornings since realising her nightmares were not only scaring the heck out of her.

At first, she'd stay up all night, reading.

She'd sit on the couch and search on Al Jazeera or BBC for updates on the crisis in Syria - she knows what Derek thinks about this strange habit and she thinks the same too, but she can't seem to stop.

It's easier said than done.

 _Right?_

Sometimes she would read on other news too, though usually about the Ebola outbreak in Congo and gang violence in Honduras and slayings of Rohingyas in Myanmar and children starving to death in Ethiopia.

She isn't sure why.

It definitely wasn't the kind of reading she was drawn to before. But now - it's soothing, in a sick and twisted motive. It's a ... _reminder_ , perhaps, that's, in some way, screaming at her, telling her that things aren't so bad here, that in comparison, her life is splendid, magnificent; she is the lucky one.

She ought to cherish that.

She is trying.

And this early morning wasn't any unusual but, she has in fact progressed to conducting her _reminders_ and nightly readings at the hospital because she thinks Derek is catching up on what she's doing.

They live in a trailer after all. There's no place to hide.

She had left a note for Derek and had taken a taxi here and now, her focus is directed towards the pile of files and paperwork in front of her. It's also what keeps her mind occupied, keeps her hands busy so they don't shake.

By seven, when most of the doctors trickle in, she's finished.

And by quarter to nine, she's seen all her patients.

By nine, when she's too busy trying to find something else to do, she's not scheduled for pre-op for another hour, she doesn't notice Dr. Burke walking over, not until the clatter of a coffee cup colliding with the wooden surface makes her jump.

And when his hand brushes her shoulder, she flinches away, jerks her body back.

"Hey, I'm sorry." he says, raising his hands in revelation that he means no harm. "I was checking on a patient here before and you seemed to have had your hands full, so I thought you might want some coffee."

She takes a deep breath, hissing as the back of her hand lights with fire from where she had struck the edge of the table.

"Thank you, Preston. That was very thoughtful of you."

He gives her a look, one she knows far too well, one she absolutely cannot handle right now. And so she averts her gaze, looks everywhere and anywhere but at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah - yeah, just didn't hear you coming." she assures, mustering up a smile.

"Paperwork that interesting?"

She manages a nod at his chuckle. "Something like that."

He gives her a confused stare, maybe even one of concern - but who ever cares - and as predicted, he eventually shrugs it off. "I'll leave you to it, then."

She thanked him again for the coffee and she excuses herself before he's even reached the elevator.

The locker room is empty at this hour, this she knows and is grateful for.

The bathroom wall becomes her best friend for the next minute. It doesn't move, doesn't swing, scream or spit back at her and nor does it buck beneath the force of each blow. Her hands protest but she ignores the sharp jolts that shoot through her, tells herself they're bruised, not broken.

The physical pain she can deal with fine enough. She needs the distraction more, the control of her emotions and movements too.

 _Stupid! Stupid!_

Her eyes close and choppy flashbacks play against the backs of her eyelids like a bad motion picture film. She doesn't open them, just tries to will them away, fists and kicks faster and harder, until her arms shake and her back collides with the opposite wall.

She can still hear him in her ear and his cheap cologne and breath still loiter uninvited.

She knows it's not real, know it's over but she can't stop the whole scene from playing out in her brain - the way his torso had pressed down on her ribs, the way he'd dug his knee into her back to hold her still, the way she had bit her lip until it bled to keep her from crying out.

She doesn't fight when her legs give out, body slumping to the floor. Her chest heaves, silent tears now slipping unwelcomed down her cheeks as her hands come up to cover her mouth.

She has to pull it together.

Taking a deep breath, she wipes them away, steels herself enough to push up from the ground.

 _As if nothing ever happened._

She's levelled once again.

* * *

 _ **January 27th**_

Watching her at Joe's is agonizing.

He knew they shouldn't have gone along to the peds' surprise party, but Addison had said otherwise. In fact, she had insisted, that it'd just be plain rude to decline an invitation and that they will be gossip if they don't show up.

 _Oh_ , okay ... but he can attest to the fact that regardless of their presence or not, they will still most definitely be the talk of the town.

It's hard to say no to her sometimes.

But now, he's sitting with his lonesome and feeling so very annoyed because if he knew she'd just leave him while she goes off drinking her vice with people she hardly ever talks to, he'd have said no to them coming.

He'd have said no to them coming on either scenarios, but he just couldn't say no to her today, not when socialising with coworkers is probably what she needs more than ever to feel herself again.

And that would have made a good defence if she was actually talking to anyone.

She's practically dancing around the crowded bar, greeting everyone with a terrifyingly huge smile, laughing too much and too loud, flinching whenever anyone gets too close.

She's drinking harder than he's ever seen her before, knocking back shots after shots and chasing them with beers like water ( _and she doesn't even like beer._ ) But all he can do is helplessly watch her drown in all the alcohol as he sits silently at the bar.

At one point, Karev even buys her a shot, which he must say is highly inappropriate given their hierarchy but what else can he do, he doesn't want to fight with her. And then, the tall blonde one - he thinks she's the same one who lives with Meredith - who also most definitely has had one too many to drink goes to give her a hug and he watches her flinch and pull away, nearly tripping over a stool in her rush to put some distance between them.

She's been all over the place.

"How's she doing?" Joe asks. His tone is one of concern, probably wondering what's causing Addison to drink like there's an extinction of alcohol coming.

He can't take his eyes away from her misery anymore and now, all he wants is to just completely ignore and pretend he can't see her at all, like all those months before, when it was easier to because right now, she's practically pressed against the back wall of the bar, literally hiding from the crowd.

He watches her take a few deep breaths, then knock back a shot, hands shaking. For a moment, he thinks she might start crying or screaming. He thinks she might run away.

He certainly wants to.

Instead, she looks around, spots someone he can't recognise, and runs up to her, laughing all hyper and drunk.

He shrugs, "About like that." he says, taking a sip of his beer.

She hasn't been this belligerently drunk since the whole thing happened, he realises. Hasn't been drinking at all, actually. But it's as if she's felt she had to do this - end her drinking sabbatical by making up for all the days she hadn't been drinking and consuming them all in one sitting. Or maybe she just wants to be normal again and the only way she could get herself through normal is to get absolutely plastered.

"On Christmas, I remember, the two of you looked ... _intense_."

 _Meredith wasn't a fling. She wasn't revenge. I fell in love with her._ _That doesn't go away because I decided to stay with you._

He's ashamed. It was and is all his fault.

 _Why couldn't he have just kept his unnecessary to himself?_

"Oh, yeah." he nods. "I said something."

"Stupid?"

He stares into his drink as if he's fishing for answers.

 _Meredith wasn't a fling. She wasn't revenge. I fell in love with her._ _That doesn't go away because I decided to stay with you._

"No, not stupid ... _upsetting_. Yeah, I guess, it was quite upsetting." he frowns and they both watch as Addison, still standing at the other end of the bar, accidentally backs into another patron - a big, chunky and hulking biker in a leather jacket.

She immediately moves the other way, bumping into someone thrice her size. And she does the same again, that results in the same fate.

She's trapped in a crowd, and the panic on her face is twisting his guts.

"I need to - I have to get her out of here." he says, unable to sit there and watch any longer.

He slips off the stool and goes to rescue his wife.

Even if that's not what she wants.

 **XXX**

 _Protesting_.

She lets him bundle her into the jeep.

 _Whining_.

She lets him carry her into the trailer.

 _Complying_.

She lets him put her to bed.

 _Crying_.

And a few hours later, she lets him hold her hair back while she vomits what feels like gallons of Scotch and much more into the toilet.

"I'm sorry." she sobs, collapsing back against the bathroom wall. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Derek, I'm so sorry."

"Shhh." he whispers, filling a glass with water and handing it to her. Her hands are shaking too badly to take it from him, so he holds it to her lips and helps her. "Just drink this, okay? Small sips."

She chokes on the water. "I'm sorry." she says again, shoving the tears out of her face with the back of her hands, like a little kid. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh, don't." he says, smoothing her sweaty and sticky hair away from her face. "It's okay."

But it's not.

He can't help feeling a little bit furious with her. He's tried and he's tried and he's tried, and she's responded to his efforts by pushing him away, declining all his suggestions and drinking to oblivion.

 _Doesn't she remember that this is the kind of behaviour that got her here?_

Her dangerous and reckless drinking is always the one flaw that continues to encourage her poor decision.

First Mark. Then, it was that ... he doesn't know what to call him.

But, of course, when it comes down to it, he loves her. All things aside, he loves her and he'll do anything for her. Even if it means to exist in this limbo with her for a while.

So, he sits beside her on the bathroom floor, rubbing her back and promising her that everything will be okay.

 _False promises, false promises. Don't make promises you don't intend to keep._

* * *

 ** _What do you think of this chapter? Addison? Derek?_**

 ** _Please do review._**

 ** _I've got another chapter ready. Just a little finishing touches needed. Hopefully I'll update that one soon._**

 ** _REVIEW!_**


	5. You'll Have to Get Over This Eventually

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 ** _Chapter Five_**

You'll Have to Get Over This ... Eventually, Addison.

* * *

 _. . .Her eyes are filled with fear, whispering sweet ending in her ear, as her lips grasp for air, one last moment we share; struggle, power, force, silence. . ._

-:-

 _ **February 10th**_

She doesn't sleep, never going deep enough for the nightmares to take hold, and her concentration falters because she doesn't sleep.

And they say the safest place is supposed to be in dreams but it seems that's when the devil tends to attack her the most. Her comforting, warmth and sleepy slumber disturbed by horrific fear caught beneath her throat and expelled in blood curdling screams - a constant, heavy thing, buzzing in her peripheral vision, clattering in the back of her mind, stopping by every once in a while.

A lot more on the every than a while, actually.

But then, once she wakes to Derek's fearful eyes on her, _he_ was gone, and there was that, too.

 _He_ is a fragment now - insignificant and poor.

An imagination.

Still, she isn't sure how to stop them.

Her appetite wavers too, before disappearing completely, that is.

It's also getting harder to cover up the dark circles under her eyes. She doesn't have makeup that could work on the hollowness of her cheeks, her gaunt face, her dull eyes.

She loses weight because she doesn't eat, because that is the only form of control she has over her body.

She misses sleep.

She's so tired.

The first panic attack comes when she's at her office, so far off and focused, engrossed in a patient's file when a code blue alarm was called. It rattles her, has her heart in her throat and her panic scrambles towards the door, ready for the intruder she believes to be entering her life once more.

Everything closes in, the weight on her chest unbearable. Her eyes darts around, the paperweight unsteady in her right hand as she stumbles over her clogs and knocks over the antique glass bowl she had bought in Italy.

Shards of glass cover the floor but she sinks onto it anyway, sliding on her hands until she's pushed back against the wall.

Her breathing doesn't slow, her pulse a jackhammer beneath her skin. Blood trickles down her forearm but she doesn't feel it, not until over an hour later when she slowly comes down, elbows deep in surgery, chilly in the laminar humidity, that she realises the throbbing on her arm isn't just from bracing herself when she had fallen down.

She had cleaned and bandaged the cut, hidden under layers of sterile protection. Now, she grounds herself against the linoleum of the OR and brings life, once more, into the world.

The baby lets them know of it's healthy and strong pair of lungs. She smiles and congratulates the mother because it's a boy - he's a boy and he doesn't ever have to worry about anything.

 _Yes. Absolutely nothing in this world._

It is a man's world, after all.

She snaps and disposes of her gloves, pushes the door to get ready to scrub out.

It won't happen again. She'll deal with it.

It's okay, she's okay.

But it's not okay. She's frightened in her own skin, jumping at the creaking of floorboards and doors, and disgusted with herself.

 **XXX**

"You look exhausted." Callie tells her during a lunch break that she does not take.

"Wow, thanks for telling me something I don't already know."

But she doesn't laugh. Neither does she.

"I'm serious, Addie. I know you're busy, you have sick, dying babies waiting for you to help them and I understand that. I also understand how this job can sometimes take a toll on all of us, but when's the last time you've had a good night's sleep?"

"I don't know." she sighs, rubbing at her temples. "Been a while, I guess."

There's no point in lying. The bags under her eyes, visible even after her best attempts at cover up, exposes her.

"Why don't you head home? Get some rest." she suggests. Her eyes are soft, encouraging, almost pleading. "Have someone cover for you."

When she remains silent, Dr. Torres reaches over, fingers brushing against hers. She forces her hand to stay still, forces herself to breathe.

 _It's just Callie._

She's a friend, not a foe.

She's a friend. Her only friend in Seattle.

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine." The response is automatic, second nature to her now.

Sliding her hand away then, the sleeve of her coat rides up. She doesn't think anything of it until there's a soft gasp to her left, until she feels Callie pulling at her arm before she can even formulate an escape plan.

"Addison," It's quiet. "What happened?"

Her other hand comes to pull down the sleeve, slowly wrenching her arm from her friend's grip. "I burned my arm. It's fine." she tells her, the lie threading on her tongue without consideration. There is a ready pack of excuses tucked into a corner of her brain, thick with dust but still there to crack open, like an unfinished book waiting for its reader to return. "Last night, on the kettle."

She did that once when she was young and still living with her parents. She'd reached the top shelf of the cupboard to find her favourite cup, one of her mother's delicate chinas, forgetting about the cloud of steam about to billow from the shaking spout until it ravished her skin like flames. Her stream of swearwords had not been enough to alert her father, sleeping off yet another bottle.

Because of this, she knows the lie is a good one.

"I'm okay, Callie. Really. I am."

She accepts it with a nod, but doesn't believe her, she knows. She fears that perhaps it wasn't a good enough lie because she doesn't relents.

But she still doesn't tell her best friend that it's the product of a panic attack, doesn't tell her that she's been assaulted, that when she does sleep it's on the couch or at the hospital because she can't sleep on her own bed without terrifying Derek, that she's slowly losing herself, slowly self-destructing behind closed doors.

She doesn't have the strength to talk about it all to her right now.

"But you'll tell me if you're not?"

And she also doesn't trust her voice right now, so she gives her friend a small nod.

 _The truth is like a rubber, it gets smaller and smaller after each mistake._

 **XXX**

Derek doesn't say a thing about the bandage on her forearm when she gets home later that night - well, why would he and how could he when he doesn't even know about it.

She's been pretty good at cowry and lying lately.

It is, perhaps, the one thing she's really perfected so far in life since it takes no hands, no legs for another lie to beg. Alone, it can go only a few yards. Together, their strength is like a house of cards.

 _Not yet. Not yet._

She's okay. It's still okay.

She suggests they go outside for a walk after she lied to his face about the big dinner she's had with Callie, and like always he seems content and relieved when she mentions food, unbeknownst of the lie.

"Are you sure?" he inquires, skating his eyes over her face, and she nods before he goes to find her coat, then drapes it around her shoulders.

There's this _cliff_ she knows is close by that she wants to check out, wants to know it's distance and depth and ... other specifics.

She needs to see that cliff.

Once she's had appropriate shoes on for the path they'll be walking on, she stands, "Let's go." she says and smiles.

But he doesn't say anything at all, only takes her hands in his and cautiously drag her closer, can't help the sob that flies from his mouth, his fingers wrapped around her sides as he crushes her to his chest.

She murmurs, doesn't know if she should hug him back. Her eyelids fluttering, she keeps calm.

And he breathes a sigh of relief when she holds him tighter.

He tries to get himself under control, slow the thunder of his heart, the choppy gulps of his breathing, running his fingers over her back in soothing patterns.

She's so on and off these days that she never knows if she's going to be able to handle him touching her, and she knows he's noticed it - her being a stupid fucking hypocrite, because this was what she wanted in the first place.

 _Remember?_

To be hush-hush about it all. Like it hasn't ever happened.

But it did happen.

It did happen and you can't erase or rewrite the past no matter how much you want to. But since the panic attack, she's been craving his arms around her.

She needs him.

She's all in, she's giving him all she is, free and open and vulnerable, and if he'd move on from her, she's not sure she could ever get over him.

"You okay?" she lifts her head to him, her voice scratchy, palm pressed over his heart.

"Yeah." His voice is no more than a croak but he tries to push it down deep, doesn't want to weigh her down too; he can carry this burden for the both of them.

He is the man here after all.

She plays her fingertips over his skin in nonsensical doodles. "Your heart is racing."

He's been a lot more emotional and comfortable in expressing his feelings than she is the past few weeks and she's the one who's been ... _you know_. And sometimes she can't help feeling a little infuriated and annoyed with him because it's like - _get yourself together, Derek._ She doesn't always want to be the one who's holding them afloat.

She's the one who was ... _hurt_ and she's doing just splendidly fine, though it has proven to be a little difficult at times, she can't deny that.

But still, nothing too unmanageable.

It's already so much hard enough without him adding his own sensitivity and tears to the mix.

But then, it's also as if he's telling her not to keep it all bottled up.

 _Just wait, wait, and wait._

Her eyes blink open wider, adapting to the dark of the night. She rubs her palm over his chest in soothing caresses. "You're worried about me?"

He nods.

"I'm fine. I'm okay."

Her reassurances are quiet, calm and maybe she even believes it but he knows it's not true. Knows he'll spend the rest of his life in guilt.

They both will, until they put _those_ things to rest, once and for all.

She's not fine. He's not too.

She knows it. He knows it.

 **XXX**

She walks beside him as they stroll past the trailer, along the narrow path deeper into the woods, the thin winter blades tickling her ankles as they brush through the grass. Her hand is securely folded into his, her skin tingling with his presence.

She stops, tugs on his hand and he turns around, facing her, eyes laced with concern and damn it, she did this to him, made him worry but she needs to fix it, doesn't want to ruin any part of their somewhat normal evening.

"Why are you _here_?"

He touches her cheek, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you with _me_ right now when you're in love with Meredith."

He scrapes a hand through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut.

He's been trying to avoid this conversation with his wife for the most part, knowing what it will always circle back to. Her insecurities are blooming like wildflowers, twining between them like thorns. He doesn't blame her, doesn't try to cut them down. He can't do that either.

He still is in love with Meredith. He can't say that he isn't because that would be a lie. The love they shared doesn't just disappear into thin air that quickly, no matter how many times you wish it upon a star.

But Addison is his wife, his first love, his best friend, and lifeline. They have history that spans beyond their years.

There is a reason why he married her.

He loves her.

And it's just disconcerting that she still thinks he'll leave her.

He won't this time.

He did that once, and with good reason too.

He doesn't give her an answer and that's really all the answer she needs; he's in love with Meredith and now, he's going to ask her to leave.

 _No. Maybe he'll just throw her out like before._

But then, he folds her hand into his again, cradles his warm fingers around her, his touch so tender that her heart leaps in her chest.

It runs through her like warm, aromatic coffee, warming and comforting.

"Because ... she's not _you_. And you're my wife."

His eyes catches the light of the moon as he speaks, shine at her earnestly and it catches her breath, the pure display of affection, of awe radiating off him. But it does not alleviate any of her fears, he's only here with her because she is his wife. It's obligatory.

 _She's an obligation_.

* * *

 ** _February 22nd_**

 _What's going on with you two?_

 _Is Addison alright?_

 _She's not herself!_

 _What did you do, Shepherd?_

 _But whatever it is, do something about it. Talk to your wife, Derek._

This time the pretending deems a lot, a lot harder than he had anticipated and his frustration towards his wife is what only fuels him.

Everyone is latching on. Everyone is questioning. Everyone is suspicious.

Dr. Torres is blaming him.

For so long, he believed he had seen it all; they'd gone through so much together, beaten all odds, survived, and he thought himself strong, able to write it out or talk it through, sweep it aside with laughter and jokes, capable of being there for her when she needed support or his shoulder to lean on.

She isn't as great of a pretender as she thinks she is. And he definitely knows he isn't great at all. He's miserable and it shows in his shoulders and strides and the constant frown in his brows.

But he still keeps on pretending as he walks aimlessly right until he finds himself gravitating towards the NICU.

It's out of instinct.

He knocks, can't help but let out a breath - she looks so much like the old Addison that it makes his chest hurt.

 _Black coat. Red lips. High heels._

He remembers her here, months and months ago when she first arrived - she had leaned over him, her hair teasing his skin with secrets and lies, and pressed lips to his.

 _Oh, that seems like a lifetime ago._

He lies, under the guise of wanting to check on the preemie she had asked for a consult yesterday.

Because he actually wanted to see her. To check up on her.

He heads over, unable to keep himself from smiling at the sight of her sitting on the rocker, a bundle of pink sleeping beauty in her arms, the tiniest wrinkled hand clutching her finger. "How is she?" he asks, perching on the edge of the door.

"Stronger." she says, smiling. "She's much better today."

"I bet. She has you." he says, studying her face. The dark circles under her eyes are like the size of baseballs, and her cheeks are so thin they seem almost hollow, but she looks happier.

 _Calmer, maybe. In her element._

"How 'bout you?"

She reaches over and subtly squeezes his hand. "I'm good." she says quietly, finds his eyes. "I promise."

He nods.

 _God, he should believe her. Why would she lie?_

He looks down at the bundle of papers tucked to a side. A folder catches his eye, and it makes his heart sink.

"You're getting a gun?"

She blinks, the skin between her eyebrows scrunches as she thinks, perhaps of a lie, tries to catch up with the jump of his thoughts before understanding spreads across her features and she detangles her hand from his and turns the folder upside down. "Yeah." she nods slowly, staring at him quietly, "We live in the woods, Derek. It - it sometimes gets a little scary, you know ... alone ... when you're working."

He swallows the wave of nausea that he feels, swallows the anxiety, the surge of disappointment.

He swallows the urge to remind her why he hates guns, why he doesn't have one and never will, why it does more harm than good, and all the reasons why getting one is a bad idea.

He swallows the grating anger, his emotional stability and this overwhelming insecurity, because this latent fear feels new and he doesn't know how to shake it off, how to push it deep down, ignore it.

"Okay." he says instead, pasting on a smile. Just like she does. "If that's what you think will make you feel safer, _Addison_."

But there are other safer ways to feel safe, like that thing of reporting to the authorities, the one thing they should have done in the first place.

He doesn't blame her.

He blames himself for falling into her trap of being guilted into keeping his mouth shut.

He walks away before she can say anything else.

 **XXX**

He accompanies her to the gun range every other mornings on their way to the hospital.

He doesn't want to, though. He feels compelled to. He doesn't want to leave her all by herself.

She keeps insisting that he doesn't have to and while that is true, accompanying her to a place that teaches you to execute a person is just a reminder that he isn't very good at protecting his wife.

So, he hovers, he listens, he stands, of course, he stays.

He barely manages the entire time watching her, all focused, determined, squeezing off round after round after round. She seems to find it soothing, but it's yet another thing he finds unsettling.

She grits her teeth and shoots. And shoots. And shoots, until it's time to go to work.

It only takes her four days to qualify.

Her instructor says she's the best one yet.

 _Of course. She's Addison. She excels at everything._

She's beaming as they drive from the gun range to the hospital that morning.

He should be happy for her. He should be delighted that his wife will finally be able to get her life back.

She feels safer with that piece of metal - _fine, okay, whatever_ \- but he doesn't understand how or why.

The grin on her face does nothing to calm the sick feeling in his stomach.

 **XXX**

When he pulls up in front of the trailer that evening, they don't get out of the car. He watches her warily, wondering if she's okay, wondering if she's mad at him - he hasn't been outwardly thrilled about her passing the gun qualification, and he knows she had noticed.

He's wondering if she's wondering anything.

But he just wishes she'd tell him something. Literally anything at all.

"Do you want to go out for dinner?" she asks hesitantly.

He turns to look at her, surprised.

She looks so nervous, like she's asking him out for the first time. Like they haven't already been married for years and years. Like they haven't loved for years and years and years.

He raises his eyebrow jokingly. She's trying, so he can too. "Are you asking me on a date, Doctor?"

A grin stretches across her face in a slow, beaming smile - it's an expression he rarely sees these days. "Do I need to ask?" she smirks.

He runs his fingers through her hair, over her cheek and she tilts her cheek into his touch, so familiar and trusting and he needs to ask, can't let it go; he has to make sure again. "Can I kiss you?"

She nods, staring at him quietly but then she detangles one of her hands, running her fingers down over the side of his face in a caress so tender that it almost aches.

"You never have to ask."

She kisses him softly then, slips her lips over his, her tongue seeking him, delving deep, giving herself to him while he takes assurance in the delirious touches of her mouth, desire singing in his blood, weakening his knees.

She's grinning when she pulls away. And for the first time since _it_ happened, her smile looks real.

And the sight of her bursts from his heart, uncensored, almost sobbed, filled with never-ending longing.

He's smiling and smiling back at her.

 _It's okay. She's okay._

"How about The Pink Door?"

"Only if you're buying." he jokes.

"Oh, you wish."

 **XXX**

Dinner feels a little bit like a dream.

It's a glimpse of the Addison he loves, the Addison he remembers.

They're talking again and he can hardly believe how natural this all feels.

She tells him of the day she's had, the patient who's threatening to sue for ligating her tubes, which was exactly what she wanted from the start. But because Karev, the holy godsend, who's god's gift to mankind, had to a prove a moot point by telling the husband, her patient had the audacity to throw her under the bus and now, she's in trouble.

She teases him about the goatee he's been growing.

She steals bites from his plate - in fact, she eats what could almost be considered a full meal.

It makes him happy and it makes him ache. He misses her so much.

So, maybe this is all she needs, he thinks. Maybe she just needs to feel safe, needs to feel useful, needs to focus on something besides what she went through.

It's just - he can't quite get himself to believe that. He can't help feeling that this is all temporary. That until she truly deals with what happened, she'll just be deflecting, burying it.

And he'll just be waiting for it and her to explode.

"Hey." she laughs, runs a warm path over his hand, looking at him in the luminous ambience of the restaurant. Her eyes shines with the glint of moonlight sneaking through the window. "Where'd you go?"

He zones back in, angry at himself for not being able to live in the moment. Especially now. "Sorry." he says, grinning at her and he reaches across the table for her hand, brings it to his lips. "You look beautiful."

She looks away and blushes.

And then, she turns serious.

"Look, Derek, I know that you're ... worried." she says hesitantly. "I know that I haven't really been ... _okay_ ... this last month, and I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise."

"No, I just - I want you to know that I'm okay." she nods. "I am. I promise. I feel like I'm me again. You don't need to worry about me anymore."

"I will always worry about you." he reminds her.

She sighs, conceding that. "Yeah. But I'm okay." she says again, and he wonders if she's saying it to convince herself too.

He's hesitant to bring anything else up. The last thing he wants to do is to ruin their night, but, of course, he pushes. "I'm really happy you're feeling like yourself again," he says cautiously. "I am - you have to know that. I am so happy ... But I'm just - I worry that this, what you're doing, isn't the right way of dealing with what happened."

He squeezes the hand in his but she pulls away, her head shaking.

 _Shit!_

"But what is the right way, Derek." she shrugs, avoiding his eyes. Her whole demeanour, from her head to toe, switches back and all he wants is to beg her to come back. "There is no right or wrong way in dealing with - with shit. Everyone is different. Everyone does shit differently. I know you want me to see someone but I don't see why I should pay someone four hundred dollars an hour to sit there and listen to me pour out details of my personal life."

He exhales quickly, and held his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay. Okay." Afraid because her voice is almost on the verge of teetering over the edge and it's evident that she's two seconds from screaming at him or shutting down completely.

 _God! She was happy and he ruined it._

"Besides ... I can do that with you, Derek." she says, when he can't manage to form words anymore.

Mute, he manages to nod.

"But, um - I'm okay. I am, I promise and I know I have you watching my back, so …"

He nods rapidly. "Yeah." he says. "Always."

He wants to believe her. He really, really does. He wants it more than anything.

And so he decides to. He decides to listen to her. That maybe she really has dealt with it.

But it doesn't ease the fear in his stomach.

* * *

 _ **February 28th**_

The trailer feels smaller tonight, even claustrophobic when it never really was.

She makes a beeline for the bathroom, stopping only briefly to grab a pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt from the basket of neatly folded laundry on the couch.

Everything's a mess in here.

Pulling at her hair, she doesn't understand where and what she should clean up first.

 _Oh_ ... but she knows she needs to shower first before she starts tidying things up in here.

The water springs to life and she forces herself beneath the spray, grits her teeth and breathes through the sting of heat. She scrubs her body raw, skin tinged pink from the intense temperature and her rough strokes. She continues until the once soft material of her loofah turns to brillo, abrasive.

Time escapes her. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours as she stands oriented towards the shower head, hands shielding her face.

The water is no longer hot.

She breathes in, out, in, out, and she repeats the process until her breath eventually catches, until her throat clogs up and the only thing she can do is choke out a sob.

 _He knows where she works. He might know where she lives too._

Hands now clamped over her mouth, tears mingle with drops of water already sliding down her cheeks, she sinks her teeth into her wrist to stop herself from yelling.

 _He was at the hospital._

Her body shakes, the force of the cries threatening to bring her to her knees, but she manages to remain hunched over, upright.

Sniffling, she wipes at her eyes, then grounds herself with her palms flat against the tile, tries to pull it together.

The BlackBerry she had reported as lost, her work phone that she's almost a hundred percent sure had somehow never left _his_ apartment, along with her dignity and worth and body that night, was _'kindly dropped off by some guy'_ as a nurse had put it, ergo having her to spend most of the afternoon getting schooled by the hospital lawyers on HIPAA and lawsuits and her recklessness and irresponsible behaviour.

She knows. But, of course, it's difficult to hear others think the same too.

When she steps out, pulling a towel around her body, she winces.

But _he_ must know her name now.

She does not look in the mirror.

She's so ashamed, so ashamed, dousing in shame.

Instead she dresses quickly, pads barefoot through the trailer on autopilot, and fumbles through making a cup of tea with unsteady hands.

It doesn't bring the warmth that she needs.

Weariness clings to her bones like a glove, exhaustion blanketing her body. She looks towards the bedroom and stops in her tracks, a heaviness settling on her chest.

She can't.

She shouldn't have to.

She's home.

She's safe.

But she's alone too.

So, her legs, at their own accord, carry her to the small drawer by the bed, trembling fingers curling around what she's looking for before she tucks herself into the corner of the couch, tugs the throw from the back and covers her body, waiting for Derek to come back home.

He said he'll be a late, so not to wait up.

She tries not to sleep.

But it's hard when she's already been awake for two days straight.

So, she lingers between a restless sleep and a hyper vigilant state of awareness, gun settled beside her.

* * *

 _ **March 2nd**_

It's like a tidal wave.

Washing over him ferociously, sweeping through his blood, claiming him in desperate surges. He exists the elevator to the fourth floor, his limbs numb as he makes his way to the receptionist, telling her that he's got an appointment.

She tells him to take a seat, that Dr. Bell is just finishing up with a patient, and she gives him the kindest smile he's seen in such a long time.

He treasures the gesture, doesn't return it though, only sits far enough away at a corner to not be noticed.

 _Addison used to smile too._

The brightest, kindest and prettiest smile - it's the other thing he was so instantly drawn to when he first saw her.

 _Addison was happier._

If he smiles, it'd be just like cheating on her.

If he does anything that doesn't include her ... well, he suppose seeing their marriage counsellor is cheating.

He's not that kind of guy.

So, he decides it's best that he leave and maybe tonight he'll be able to convince Addison to come with him to see Dr. Bell. But then, the receptionist calls out to him, "Mr. Shepherd, Dr. Bell will see you now."

Maybe he'll just do this one time by himself.

The door is half open when he peeks, working up the courage to knock, to go in, when Dr. Bell looks up from his paperwork.

"Dr. Shepherd," he says cheerfully. "So, you've decided to continue on your own?"

 _Not quite._

He takes a hesitant step forward, still hovering in the doorway. His heart is pounding so hard it's all he can hear. "No, um, I just …" he swallows hard, walks in, then take a seat on one of the two chairs, the right one. Because Addison took the left when they were last here, he remembers

His tongue tastes like sandpaper. "I just wanted to ... um …"

Dr. Bell waits him out.

"Um, it's Addison ... it's about ..." he manages. He shakes his head, his eyes stinging with tears. "Addie, my wife, she was, uh - she was - she -"

He still can't get the word out.

The doctor's eyes are fixated on him.

He stares back too, mouth gaping like a fish. "She's been ... _raped_." he exhales.

It's the first time he's said it out loud, and he immediately feels the urge to vomit. His soul is breaking. He didn't think there was anything left to break after the past months. It shouldn't happen like this but here he is - hunching over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.

Dr. Bell comes around the desk and wraps an arm around him. He's saying something that he can't hear because he's gasping and gasping and then he feels the doctor sit down on Addison's seat.

He feels a brief stab of guilt for sharing her private business with the doctor. She wouldn't want him to know, he knows that.

But it's just another thing on a long list, and he doesn't know where else to go, what else to do.

He just couldn't keep all that - all of it to himself. He's not like her.

He shouldn't have to.

"She's, um ... she's not doing that great." he forces himself to say. "She's having a lot of - of trouble, I guess, and I'm here because I, uh - I don't know how to help her, and I just ... I want to be able to help her ..."

Dr. Bell doesn't say anything.

Finally, Derek manages to look up, to meet his eyes. "How are _you_ doing?" he asks gently.

"It's not - Addison's the one who was hurt." he says. "I'm not - I just - it's not about me. I just need to be able to help her, and I'm not - doing a very good job of that, so …"

He's greeted with silence again.

He shifts uncomfortably on the seat.

This was a bad idea. He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have betrayed Addison. He should have stayed home with her instead.

" _Derek_." Dr. Bell says, his voice soothing and hypnotic and he just knows then, that he's not strong enough to carry through this charade all by himself anymore. "How are _you_ feeling?"

The dam broke just like that, and the ground is lost under his feet when waves crashes wildly as evident with the tears tracking down his cheeks. He chokes down a sob. _Unstoppable_. He can literally feel his entire body unraveling to pieces.

"How do you think I'm feeling?" he growls. "My - my wife was _raped_. My wife was raped, and I - I'm such a - I can't even - she was attacked, and I can't - I couldn't …"

He wants so badly to scream. To punch someone, to rail and yell and lose his mind at the fucking unfairness of the whole goddamn situation. He wants to curl up in a ball on the floor and cry.

He wants his mom.

"I don't know how to help her." he whispers. "She's a mess. She's not sleeping, she's barely eating." He buries his face in his hands. "She thinks I'm gonna leave her."

He can't breathe, he's gasping. He can't get the words out, he's talking. His entire world seems to be collapsing around him now.

Or maybe it already has and it's the rubble of what's left of his entire world crushing him to death.

* * *

 _ **March 13th**_

She comes to him in the middle of the night, her heels slipped off at the threshold of their bedroom so her feet makes no noise against the tin floor.

For a moment, she stands on the side of the bed and watches; his chest rises and falls with the slow, steady breaths of sleep, his eyes closed against the sliver of moonlight that pours over her toes and onto his face, illuminating the lines at the corners of his downturned smile. The laugh lines are still there at the wings of his eyes but fainter, dulled from disuse.

Because of her, she thinks.

Her fingers itches to reach out and smooth the frown lines away but she can't. _Won't_. _Doesn't_. Instead, her palm falls back to the wrinkled polyester blend of her skirt.

But she's afraid to be afraid, too afraid to be still healing. She's afraid that they are too broken now but they are nothing but bandaged apricots in the rotting August sun and she's also afraid that they have too much or not enough time.

He told her she looked gorgeous this morning. Gorgeous in the everyday clothes he had see her wearing many times before and when her fingers had ran over his chest, she realised then how desperately she needed the confidence boost.

She needed his eyes roving over her, needed to see that he still looked at her and saw not the filthy woman addicted to control but the woman he loved.

 _Loves_. He's proven that again and again, that his affection hasn't wanned in the face of his frustration and, yes, his justified anger toward her.

He brings her coffee, leaves the Starbucks cup at the corner of her ink blotter like a secret valentine.

He bought her a couch for her office to replace the ratty old one that was there well before she joined Seattle Grace.

He puts her favourite take-out in the refrigerator so she'll have dinner on the nights she works late and he doesn't.

He still loves her and she needs to prove to him that she loves him just as fiercely, trusts him too.

In his sleep, he groans, turning over ungracefully with his arm untucking from the blankets. Her heart clenches when the moon shows them to be the burgundy floral ones she had teased him into purchasing as they had wandered down the aisles of Target one afternoon.

She steps closer until his hand brushes her bare knee and tries to ignore the tiny shiver of pleasure that ripples through her body as she reaches for the comforter. She moves slowly, trying to tuck his arm back under the safe warmth of the blankets but his eyes flash open, hazy in the deep of night.

"Addie?" he mumbles, trying to sit up through his disturbed sleep. "What happened? Why're you home?"

The only reason she came home was because she was trying to rationalise taking her gun to work.

"Oh, ahh, I - headache."

It's wrong and she won't and so, she told Richard that she needed to head home because she feels sick and she does in fact feels sick, thinks there's something really gravely wrong with her insides.

It's not a lie. She does have a killer headache.

He rubs at his eyes and she steps away, ready to make a tactical retreat, but he catches the hem of her skirt, tethering her to his side.

"Are you feeling better? Have taken a Tylenol?"

She nods.

And he looks at her in the glow from the windows, the crack of light from the bathroom because she always runs into everything if she gets up at night. "Okay. Come sleep, Addie." he says, tugging at her so her legs hit the side of the mattress. "I know you haven't been."

He knows she hasn't been sleeping at all since her phone showed up at the hospital. He knows she's terrified that _he'll_ hurt her again. He knows and he regrets shouting at her the other day.

 _He could've been off the streets months ago, Addison, if you'd just reported it!_

The quiet whisper cuts through her thin defenses quicker than any yelling ever could. "You need to sleep. He won't come here. If he does, I'm here, I'll protect you. Just come to bed?"

 _He could've been off the streets months ago, Addison, if you'd just reported it!_

She swallows the immediate rejection, and instead sighs, curling her fingers around his fist. "Okay. Let me change first." she says, untangling him from her skirt.

She finds one of the ancient band-tees (the _one she stole from Derek when they were just starting to see each other, the fabric worn soft from years and years and years of love._ ) still in her side of their dresser and twists her arms to unzip the sheath skirt. The gray fabric gets draped over the armchair as she shrugs on the shirt.

By the time she turns back around, he's fast asleep again, mouth open and slack against the pillows. But when she puts a knee on the mattress and the bed dips toward her, he startles awake again, flipping back the covers so she can crawl down under them, his hand beckoning her to curl in close.

And oh, it will hurt tomorrow but she obeys his silent wish and tucks herself in against him, her legs tangling with his and her right hand resting at his waist.

He runs his thumb gently along her cheekbone. The bruises are long gone now, but the phantom pains still lingers there. "Remember the day I told about my father?"

 _He could've been off the streets months ago, Addison, if you'd just reported it!_

She nods against him. Of course, she remembers. No one should ever go through something so traumatic like that.

"You told me that if I ever needed help carrying that, then all I had to do was ask."

The tears in her eyes are sudden and unwelcome as his hand brushes through her tangled hair and she stops trying to stop them, turning her head into his shoulder.

"Derek, I'm sorry. I thought I could - I thought I could deal with it all myself ..." she chokes around a muffled sob. "But I can't. I'm losing my mind. I'm scared all the time. I need help. He's with me everywhere I go - I don't know - I feel foreign in my own body. I'm going crazy, Derek. I need to do something. There's something very wrong with me ..."

"It's okay." he promises, pressing the words into her temple. "I'm going to help you."

She turns her head back to touch a kiss to the line of his shoulder right where his t-shirt ends.

Running. Running. Never stopping.

 _Isn't that what you want?_

Hiding. Hiding. Always hidden.

 _Did you really think you'd forget?_

* * *

 ** _What do you think? Addison? Derek?_**

 ** _Love to know your thoughts on this chapter._**

 ** _Please review!_**

 ** _REVIEW!_**


	6. It's Been Five Months, Addison

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 ** _Chapter Six_**

It's Been Five Months, Addison.

* * *

 _. . .Who gave you the right to commit such a heinous crime, and leave her miserably insane. . ._

-:-

 _"Dr. Bell, is it okay if - I know Derek told you already, but ... I'm just not there yet and I know I have to eventually, I just - can we not talk about_ it _on our first session?"_

 _"Of course. Take as long as you need, Addison."_

* * *

 _How do you erase the demanding thoughts that float around your mind?_

 _How do you stop the howling wolves that run around your head?_

 _How do you dim the frightening scenes that replay in your eyes?_

 _How do you release the haunting cries that reside in your heart?_

 _How do you forget the gruelling monster that lives in your soul?_

She doesn't know, but what she does know is it starts again on a Tuesday.

She's peaceful in bed, like she has been for months now, deep in a dreamless sleep when she wakes to a heavy hand crushing over her mouth and a strangled pressure on her chest.

 _Derek?_

Her eyes rips open in saucers, she can't breathe at all - panic immediately rippling through all her systems as she comes to comprehend that she's face-to-face with a bulky, hulking man in a black mask.

There is no visible face, only a mouth and two piercing green eyes that burns into her own.

She's frozen from head to toe - _oh, very_ _literally_ \- but her mind is in a desperate search, choking on attempts of an escape, to figure out who this nightmare is, and _why is this happening to her again?_

She's been _really_ good.

She don't understand why it's happening again.

She's been _really_ faithful.

She don't know what she's done wrong again.

Suddenly, she hears whispers in the wind, purring the mechanics of breathing in a panicked shriek and she tries it, gasping and gasping in, in, in, just in over the hand and she thrashes wildly beneath his weight, claw at the thick wrists, tries to reach for his eyes, tries to wriggle desperately away but he's stronger, has the advantage of a surprise - no, no, he's obviously so much weightier and meatier than she is.

 _Where is Derek?_

He's purposefully crushing her with his body and she screams; it's muffled.

She bites down and so hard too that she feels the tops and bottoms of her incisors meet when she singed into his palm, she hears a guttural groan and once there's no longer a hand over her mouth, she screams for Derek to help her, demands to know who he is, then braces for the fist to her face that she knows is about to come.

There's a haze of pain and blood, a desperate cry, and then the world disappears and reappears in stars. Hot copper is in her month, it hurts to breathe. Her legs kick, tries to, but his weighs a tonne, and her arms fight against his at where he has her pinned down.

 _Where is Derek?_

She all but freezes again, this time, the blade of a knife connects with the skin of her neck. It doesn't dig in or scorn at all; no more pressure is added than is needed to serve as a warning. _A threat_. Her eyes lock with his, fear and she's rendered paralyse.

He doesn't seem to care.

She _can't_ take a breath because then, she will be cut.

She _can't_ reach her gun, _can't_ find a way to manoeuvre away from him, _can't_ push him off, _can't_ even scream or plead to stop the hand that's under her shirt, creeping up higher and higher a lot too quickly and roughly.

 _No! No! No!_

She _can't_ ever do anything right.

All she _can_ do is wait - so useless like the dummies they used to practice on in med school.

There's a growled threat that he's roaring into her face - _his breath is of rum_ \- a veiled reference to vengeance but, _for what?_ She doesn't know. She remains still, closes her eyes, any movement on her part will only add to the pressure of the knife against her skin.

And at the distinctive sound of a zipper sliding down she bolts up on the couch, sitting up straight, heaving in oxygen, choking on those too and sweat covering her skin in a glisten. Her eyes scans the space only to find it empty, that she's alone. Derek is working late tonight, yes, she remembers now. She runs a hand through her damp hair and down to her face - her nose isn't broken - and tosses the covers from her body.

 _Shit!_

There's a loud banging on her door seconds later, rattling the trailer and she practically jumps out of her skin, palm coming up to her heart, her pulse erratic; she could potentially spontaneously combust at any second now.

 _Tick, tick, tick ..._

Her gaze shifts to the alarm clock beside her, it's only seventeen minutes past ten. She had managed to fall asleep at around eight, pure exhaustion finally taking its toll.

Shuffling across the space, she rubs at her eyes and tugs the fabric of her sweater closer to her body.

The banging starts up again, this time accompanied by the panicked calls of, "Addison!"

 _Callie?_

She looks through the peephole to confirm, and takes a deep breath, eyes falling shut for a few more seconds to coerce herself to act normal - _whatever that means_ \- to not give herself away. And just as she opens the door there's another shout, "Addison, I know you're - oh, thank god." Her fist is balled in mid-knock, and she slowly lowers it, then.

"Cal, what are you doing here?" she asks, still hazy around the edges. Her eyes falls to the bag in her hand. "What's that?"

"Nevermind that, Addie, are you okay?"

Her brows furrow at the fear etched in the lines of her friend's face. "I'm - yeah." she sighs. Lying is so exhausting now, draining what little's left of her energy. "Why?"

She steps aside to open the door wider, to invite her in. A part of her wants to send her away, to be alone in the aftermath of this nightmare, but she's come with what looks to be food and she doesn't have the heart to turn away her pained face right now.

"Yea, sorry about the mess in here." she tells her, gesturing to the here and there contents at trailer, Callie doesn't seem to mind, but she still feels the need to give her an explanation. "I had a lot of errands to get done today, I was spent when I got back, so."

"What mess? Have you seen my place?" Callie jokes, tells her not to stress too much about it.

The worst of the damage, the evidence, is gone, but she still has a few pieces of furniture sitting askew.

Once the door is double locked, she turns around, follows her to the kitchen counter where she rests the bag.

"You - you were screaming." she says quietly, head tilted. "I picked up some Chinese because I know how much you love it. I know you could use it -"

She tightens her arms around her body, fingertips brushing against the ridges of her ribs beneath the fabric of her shirt. It stings everywhere, like bruises, where the hand in her dream touched her.

Callie's telling her that she needs to eat. Nicely, subtly, calmly. And she hears it. "- and I feel like I haven't really talked to you in a while, so I thought ... hey, Chinese."

She's nervous, she hears it in her voice, sees it in her body language too and she's selfishly glad that she's not the only one that's not at ease.

"I've been here for almost ten minutes, Addie, I heard you."

"I don't know what you think you heard, but -"

But she shakes her head, "No." her friend cuts her off, the firmness of her voice catching her by surprise. "I know screams when I hear them."

"Callie, it's just ..." her voice trails off, her head falling into her palms, elbows braced on the counter. "It was nothing, just a nightmare."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay." she says, moving to pull a few items out of the bag, "Then, how about we sit down and not talk about it?"

She offers a smile. "Yeah. Okay ... Wait, how do you know where I live?"

"Your husband told me."

What she really wanted to ask was are you sure you weren't being followed.

She doesn't, though.

That will give her paranoia away.

Watching as Callie piles carton upon carton of Chinese into a tower and tries to carry it all over to the couch, she barely manages to stifle a laugh.

"You know, you could've just kept it in the bag and bring it over altogether."

She pauses inches from the glass table, looks between the bag and her overflowing arms. "I ... could have, yes." she nods. "That would have made a lot more sense, actually. Hey, looks like you've got a nest going on here." she says, and she watches her motion towards the mountain of blankets cocooned on the couch.

She scrambles to take a seat in the corner, trying to shove the blankets out of the way. "Fell asleep out here." she tells her.

It's true. She doesn't have to know it was on purpose.

She doesn't respond, just takes a seat beside her and hands out containers of lo mein, wonton soup, and sweet and sour chicken.

They eat in silence, Addison finding herself somewhat content for the first time in a while. Callie starts to tell her funny stories of her younger and much precocious self, whether it's to fill the silence or because she senses she needs a good laugh, she isn't unsure.

But she's grateful.

For a while, she forgets all about the nightmare, just focuses on the here and now.

She finishes her soup and lo mein, which is more than she's been eating, much to her own surprise. She pushes her box of sweet and sour chicken to the side; she'll put it in the fridge for sometime later.

Maybe she'll even eat it.

"Addie?"

"Hmm?"

A pause. "Can I ask you something?"

Her heart jumps, but she just huffs. "Has that ever stopped you before?"

"Well, no." she admits.

But she's still silent, and she turns to face her, realises she's still looking for approval. _That's … different_. And so she nods, hesitant of what she'll ask.

"Why are you sleeping on your couch?"

Mouth open in a surprised _o_ , she struggles for a second before composing herself. "I'm not. I told you, I fell asleep."

"No. You actually are."

She twists her head, nods towards the floor on the other side of the couch. She follows her gaze to the pile of extra blankets, alarm clock on the table, and -

 _Fuck._

Her gun.

Her gun is under the table, barely peeking out from beneath the blanket she'd tossed over there. She hopes Callie won't notice it, but then, she realises the longer she stares the chances that she will notice is higher and she's just about to say something, to take her attention elsewhere, when she cocks her head, squints and she knows then that she's seen it.

"Addison ..." Her name is a high-pitched whisper on her lips and panic curls itself around her ribs. "Oh my god, is that a gun?"

"I ..." She doesn't have an answer. For once, she has no plausible excuse to give her, nothing but the truth and she cannot spit that one out. "It's nothing."

Reaching over, her friend grabs it from under the blanket, carefully, and holds it for a second.

"The safety's off. Oh, that's not nothing." she breathes, wide eyes trained on her, and … _what? It is not, is it?_ She doesn't remember taking it off, but maybe after - _oh, no._ "Why is the safety off? Addie, please, talk to me."

 _No, no one can know._

"I don't ..." she chokes, screwing her eyes shut. She sees those eyes, green, cat-like. They stare back at her and she squeezes them tighter, tries to change the picture, shake it off, but they remain there, bright as ever.

A hand brushes at her shoulder and she jumps, body shifting away - she tries not to be obvious about it.

But she is.

She can feel the anxiety creeping back, the room closing in, and her breathing quickens.

"Hey, hey." she whispers, and it's the softness of her voice that threatens to undo her. "Hey, breathe, you're okay."

After a minute, she nods, taking a deep breath. She opens her eyes, Callie's are trained on her, wide and filled with more concern than she's seen in anyone.

She gave herself away.

She knows something, it's written on her face, in the way her hand comes to rest near her mouth.

She's going to fix this. She has to convince her otherwise.

 _No one can know._

"Addison, are you - did someone - were you - did someone ... _hurt_ you?"

She's uncomfortable, chooses a synonym, doesn't want to say _it_. Neither does she. Saying it out loud makes it more real somehow.

"What?"

If only she had had a drink of something in hand, she would have spat it back into the glass and that would have made her exclamation more convincing.

 _Shit!_

"You heard me."

"God, Callie, no. Of course, not."

 _It's working?_

"Really? I don't want to be right about this at all. But you've certainly been acting strange lately. You're - you flinch when someone touches you, and you've been so distant for the past few weeks that I - I assumed you and Derek were working through something as usual but … you're losing weight, you're having nightmares, you're sleeping on your couch with a freaking _gun_. And that's a checklist of someone who's been ..." and she almost curls her lips into an ' _r_ ', but doesn't persist, "- Hurt."

Hearing her recount it all, hearing everything she's been doing out loud, it's a lot.

She's been trying too hard, she suppose.

 _Hasn't she?_

But, she decides that Callie's tone is one of ... accusatory ( _really, Addie?_ ) and she doesn't like it.

"I can't even comprehend what you're saying right now. Do you even hear yourself?"

She needs to stop this from escalating.

 _But maybe going all defensive isn't the best way to convince your best friend, Addison?_

And she jumps up too quickly, the room is spinning again, but she ignores it and rounds on Callie, and stumbles across the small space to yank the tin door open.

"Get out."

Instead there's silence, and she forces herself to turn towards her, to see if she's still even there.

Maybe Callie isn't even here and this is all just in her head.

It's her hands that are shaking in the balled fists at her sides.

* * *

 _"The key here, Derek, is patience. People respond to trauma differently. Some faster than others - two week, two months. Some, a decade or two, even a lifetime. It's important to recognise that each individual will go through the process at their own speed and intensity. She knows that she needs help, that's a promising first step."_

 _"I just want her to be okay."_

 _"She is. You have to believe that."_

* * *

It doesn't work.

Two and a half months into therapy, she tells Dr. Bell that the anxiety is still very much present, and she wants it gone, obliterated, obsolete, nonexistent, and talks about possible recommendations for a psychiatrist so she could be prescribed with medication. Because though the panic attacks has gotten a lot better, it still isn't as at bay as she would like it to be.

Because what she wants is to work and live in her own place of work and home without being on the edge all the time, without her adrenal glands firing at all angles every second, every minute, every hour of the day, without jumping at the littlest of things.

And it's the most fucking frustrating feeling - having no control over your emotions, and body too.

She needs to be strong again because if she's not strong, she's not anything at all.

The rope she normally clings to with burned hands is now only a thread, and that thread is connected to her career. And she hasn't been doing a great job at that recently.

She's unfocused, sad, fatigued and distracted all the time and people have been noticing.

Because Dr. Bell's method and style of getting well soon isn't the soon enough she really _really_ needs and wants. Or maybe that's just what psychology is.

 _Slow. Tame. Mono._

She don't know.

But he says no.

 _No._

But half of the country is on one thing or the other for the littlest of things.

 _No_.

That therapy isn't an overnight cure, isn't only about getting results, but self-care too.

That she doesn't need to rely on synthetically designed chemical reactions.

That in his professional opinion, she shouldn't be a candidate for one. She has potential to get through the trauma drug free.

That experiencing a trauma, though not always a guarantee, is a major underlying source of addiction behaviour.

But addiction doesn't run in her family. Montgomeries don't get addicted, it's more habit than dependence.

That it's just a quick fix.

It's only a temporary one.

It's not what she needs if she really wants to continue moving forward in the long run.

He isn't necessarily wrong about her, though, and she knows it. Hell, she had even told him from the beginning how obsessive she can be, how she's made homes out of rabbit holes.

Instead he teaches her to breathe, slow and deep, and to chant some ridiculous positive nonsense to counter the negativity in her head in an event of a panic attack.

She doesn't really listen. It goes in one ear and out the other.

She knows what's best for her. And besides she's the real doctor here - but she doesn't say that out loud.

* * *

 _"Why do you think your husband's going to leave you?"_

 _"Because he told me so. He loves her. Not me."_

 _"Her, the intern?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"And you all work together?"_

 _"I know it's unusual but, yes."_

 _"And he had expressed it to you?"_

 _"That he loves her, yes. On Christmas."_

 _"But he's not in any relations with her right now?"_

 _"Well, that I ... I don't know."_

 _"Addison."_

 _"No, I really don't know. Sometimes ... I feel like he's hiding something from me, so, yeah, I don't know."_

 _"Did he give you any reason to distrust him?"_

 _"Not really, no. It isn't so much as he, just Derek, himself, but like ... everybody as a whole and he's one of the everybody."_

* * *

She sees them on a Wednesday.

She's had doubts about her husband's whereabouts for some time now, ever since _that_ incident and maybe it's just paranoia, maybe it isn't, maybe it's distrust, maybe it's woman's intuition, but she tries to think positive.

 _Always_.

Because that's all she can do and it's proven to be a lot, a lot difficult.

 _Smile through the negative. Shove it away._

She doesn't need anymore of those.

Because he really must be just checking on a patient.

 _Right?_

 _He's upstairs, Addie_. _Don't worry. He's a hands-on doctor, he cares about his patients and sometimes that means to share him a little. Don't be selfish._

Maybe she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt because he's done nothing to tarnish her trust. But she can't shut that one voice in her head from whispering distrust.

He's been so immensely patient and so wonderful to her, with her all this time.

He's been nothing but amazing.

He could've left. He could've thrown her out. He could've done slot of things.

She sighs, looking around.

 _Happy. Love. Sin._

It's like it's high school all over again, only now instead of being the girl who has been ditched just before prom because her best friend was asked out by the boy they had both liked, that prompted her to accept Skippy Gold's proposal because she just cannot go to prom alone, she's left standing stupidly by the _unspiked_ punch, waiting for her husband to reappear like a magic act.

She grumbles, frowning down at the pink, questionable drink in hand that really just taste like sugar before downing it in one gulp.

Her world doesn't have a clue.

It's so frustrating.

Her universe doesn't have a clue about how she feels about her husband, doesn't know how much she adores him, how not okay she is with him trying to _fix her_ but she's trying to be okay with it, how desperate she wants to be _normal_ again so he wouldn't leave her for Meredith ( _because - why wouldn't he? She's young, ambitious, exciting, smart, and - she doesn't say this too often about other women, Meredith is the exception here, though - she's gorgeous. With those eyes, even she can't help but get lost in them._ ), doesn't know that in her last session with Dr. Bell, she had finally _finally_ ripped off the band-aid and it was by far the most difficult thing she's ever had to do in her entire thirty-nine years of life.

Oh, she felt like she was going to die right there in his office.

But she's done it, she's accomplished something that truly matters and he said he was proud of her and she had plastered on a smile then, muttered the briefest of thanks to her doctor, because he helped her get there.

Because, in the steely words of his - _Nothing will ever erase what happened to you, and sooner or later you'll have to acknowledge the event in order to begin healing from it._

But it doesn't work.

Because then, later as she was walking to her car at the parking lot, she swear she heard someone chasing her footsteps and there was that same black sedan she noticed outside the hospital that afternoon too.

 _Everyone has a black sedan, Addison._

It's so frustrating.

Because it didn't work like _they_ said it would.

Maybe be it did at one point. But it only lasted until the parking lot.

No one knows she's dangling on a thread. Maybe it's not even a thread anymore. Maybe a hair, a strand. And it's brittle and weak and it's hazardous and it's pretty much going to shatter and break really soon.

It's an anticipated wait and she's waiting, waiting, but for now, she's still holding on.

She's Addison Adrianne Forbes Montgomery ( _Shepherd_ ), she's strong.

She don't think she gives up too quickly.

Well, her exterior, her act is as strong as enamel. But inside, she's rotting, she's decomposing from the inside out.

 _Go back home, Addison. You don't belong here. Go home and not to the one in the middle of nowhere._

She's in red, pretty and in a low-back because that's how Derek likes her in a dress. She had dressed pretty for him and he's not even here to appreciate her. She had dressed for him, even though it's making her very uncomfortable and self-conscious with the amount of skin she's exposing - _what if it happens again?_

 _Don't dress in revealing clothes, dear, because then you're asking for it -_ Bizzy had told her that right before she went off to college.

Because this is a world where ' _no'_ means ' _convince me'_ and flirting is a green light for sex, where women are told, ' _don't get raped'_ and men are rarely told, ' _don't rape'_.

It's so frustrating.

But some things can never be changed.

 _Right?_

And she feels goosebumps crawling up her skin now as she waits there with her lonesome while everyone is in pairs, having a great time and - oh, she sees Finn Dandridge, Meredith's date, by his lonesome too - it's probably because she can relate, she can basically read behind his pursed lips, head scratches and conscious, wandering gaze across the room.

 _Where is Meredith?_

Her throat ripples with a swallow that goes down hard and she takes sharp intakes of breaths to steady the rupturing of her heart.

 _So, Meredith's checking on a patient too?_

She watches as Finn approaches and he waves at her.

 _Why is he coming her way?_

"Hi." he greets almost too cheerfully.

If only he knew what this universe has in store for him.

He looks so out of place, unwelcomed, so much like her when she first arrived at Seattle Grace. _Ignored_. She ... still feels a little somewhat like that, desolated; not so much anymore, sometimes, the feeling flares up like a bad rash.

"Finn, hey, how are you liking prom?" she smiles at the vet.

"Well, it isn't like high school at all, that's for sure. You?"

 _But why is he so nice and polite to her?_

"Barely surviving ..." she answers truthfully because he wouldn't understand the real meaning of her answer.

"Have you seen Meredith?" he asks, scratching the itch above his lip as he squints across the room.

 _No. But I'm pretty sure my husband's fucking her._

She shakes her head. "No, I haven't."

"I don't know what happened or maybe I said something - we were dancing and then, she said she needed air and I haven't seen her since."

"Oh." she breathes, lifting tentative eyes to him and purses her lips in dissatisfaction. Her eyes reads sad and with a hint of pity because - oh, my god, this man seriously hasn't got a clue of the mess and entanglements he's gotten himself into and truthfully, now as she sees it from his perspective, it's almost not worth it - the heartaches, deceptions, confusions, silence, anger, and the losing yourself in the process.

She's been in this entail for way too long to just backdown now, so it's different for her. But him, he's new. He can still get out.

She wants to tell him to run and never look back, but then, she likes the company.

"Oh, I don't know, she's probably somewhere around here. You know, _checking on a patient_." she implies and he nods at her, thinking nothing of her suggestive tone.

 _Why would he? She's an excellent liar._

And he starts a conversation about his own high school prom, and she tells him about hers with Skippy Gold and spending the entire night talking about Star Wars.

He laughed because she doesn't seem like the kind of someone who'd be interested in Star Wars.

She's too good looking for Star Wars, as he phrased it.

Oh, but she didn't look like this in high school at all. She was an ugly duckling, then. Now, she's ageing well like fine wine - a Forbes inherited gift. Luckily, she wasn't cursed with the Montgomery's premature wrinkling.

Her back straightens at the compliment, she knows she should be flattered and she is.

 _But why is he being so extra nice? Does he want something?_

She hears him talk and talk about something so boring that it's well worth not listening to and she's just being polite as she nods and smiles and laughs along because it's Bizzy's pestering reminder about manners in her ear. Then, her attention is being dragged far across the distance at the opposite end, amused to finally see her husband.

His hair is a tousled mess and his tie is lopsided. She knows she had straightened it out before he left to check on his 'patient'.

And for a second there, she thinks about being petty, cause a scene to let everyone know what she knows.

But then, she zones back to life by Finn's laughter - _did he say something funny?_

She wouldn't ever know.

Swallowing the burning tears, she fakes a laugh and throws a hand onto and over the vet's shoulder, her fingers grazes the back of his neck and she almost - just almost tucks her red silk to the curve of his tux and she catches her husband's eyes, then.

He's watching her watch him.

 _Two can play this game, Derek._

But then, his cologne assails her ( _hints of vetiver, bergamot, and tiniest tang of_ _tobacco._ ) and the air is crushed out of her lungs, a shiver runs down her spine and she pushes back the awful memories, her body too, remembers why she cannot be engaging in such risky behaviours anymore.

She apologises quickly and steps back - _one, two_ \- he thinks nothing of it and she tells him that she has spotted Meredith.

It's so frustrating.

That strand she's clinging onto with bloody callous hands is about to snap, but - _wait, wait for her, she's not ready to let go yet!_

She gravitates towards her husband's side - it's out of habit, really. Or perhaps because he has the keys.

He gives her a very selfishly brief look, but she continues to stare away, jaw clenched, bottom lip trembling as he tries to avoid her scrutinising gaze, and she doesn't like what she sees.

 _How could you, Derek?_

She wouldn't let him fuck her the other day, and he knows why. She needs a little more time, she told him.

The Chief approaches them now, looking for Dr. Bailey's interns and she turns to her husband with her head twisted sideways, asks if he's seen Dr. Grey, because he's always prancing after her while they make moon eyes at each other.

"No." he still cannot look straight at her.

Dr. Webber scolds them, specially her, and she crosses her arms around her and rolls her eyes.

He can only handle one crisis at a time and their's is as irrelevant as the hospital is about to be as a result of the whole stealing of a donor heart/cutting a patient's LVAD situation.

Then, everything stops, even time is a standstill now ( _this goddamn hospital is like a telenovela_.) and everyone just stares as Karev carries Stevens down to the lobby.

The love of her life had just died.

Izzie Stevens, the doctor she sees potential like Richard saw in her all those years ago - oh, she looks so pained, so crushed, so sad and she's jealous because she's the lucky one here. And it's a shame she doesn't even know that.

Because hers is still alive. Her world. Her universe.

Without a word and without turning to face the disgrace that is her husband, she holds out a hand, palm side upwards and he seemingly understands because he drops the car keys onto them.

She isn't about to cry, she isn't about to fall apart right now - she's at her workplace, she's a professional. So, she simply strides out of the hospital, Valentinos clicking angrily, in a haste to get to the car as quickly as possible because the tears are coming and they're coming fast and hard. And Derek chases after her, evidently having found his voice now as he calls after her.

"Addison! Wait! Addie, Addie, wait!"

There are a few doctors she recognises lingering at the parking lot and she fears exposing any more of their dirty laundry, but at a glance towards them, and they graciously couldn't care less.

She doesn't know if she should be disappointed or not at all.

"Addison, listen." And he reaches her just as she is about to yank the door open and hide, grasps at her arm with the slightest tug, and pulls her towards him.

"No. No." she tries to fight him, to shove at his chest, but - of course, she can't do anything right.

She's as weak as a geese.

 _Whoever said that she's strong?_

"Let go. Don't touch me, Derek." she spits out, twists the wrists in his fists and he grits his teeth at that, both still fighting. "I hate you."

Guilt blooms his features, remorse, but when he returns his gaze to her, there is no apology, only a hope she cannot completely comprehend and he flattens her against the car.

She stops moving.

It's always intention on his part.

He knows that _that_ will keep her from fighting him.

"What are you doing?"

Her wrists are still curled into his, holding them tight to the roof, by either side of her head like a surrender and she stares directly at him, watching his chest rise with a deep breath - doesn't know what emotion is present in her eyes but she squares anyway, heart sinking and flaring all at once.

She wants him to feel exactly what he's doing to her. "Derek, what are you doing?" her voice is high - angry, scared, confused all at once.

But he bows foreword, lips making soft contact with the top of her nose. She sucks in a breath, but shifts onto her side before he can kiss her lips.

He drops his forehead to her temple instead, allowing them both a moment of rest they so desperately need.

It feels so good and she misses being this close to warmth again. When she feels him press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair, she just know she can't take this anymore, being so angry at him.

Because this is all she had wanted - a reassurance that he's not going to leave her.

"You don't get to leave me." she huffs out, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to rediscover her breath for the second time today.

He brushes a thumb to her cheek, "Addie, I'm not. I told you already." and bites down on another apology and looks up at her, slightly surprised to find her watching him with something soft in her gaze, the flares of anger and hard layer of stoned amber nothing more than rubble and embers.

He's not used to this more forgiving side to her, especially lately, this near tender expression on her face he doesn't quite know.

The _I-plan-to-murder-you-and-the-police-will-never-find-your-body_ face from earlier, that he understands. This, not so much.

She mumbles, frowning down at her hands, "Can you - I'll be fine - I just want honestly, you had sex with Meredith, didn't you?"

"What - no. No. Of course not." _Why and where, in the hell, would she even get such an idea?_ "I wasn't with Meredith - I mean I was, but not like - not like _that_." he extends one of his hands forward to slip along her arm, to cup the sharp point of her elbow.

"Then, like what?"

For that split second as his eyes flashes with something like shame and regret, she had figured it out. Everything stills in the whirlwind of her mind - _oh, oh, she could kill him._

And this one would be a better reason to.

She lets out a breath, utterly hating him in that moment because he might as well just grab a mic right now and announce _it_ to the entire hospital, hating him because he has no right to do that, to expose her to just anyone ( _to a therapist is one thing but to his mistress?_ ), hating him for leaving her with nothing to buoy in these choppy waters of painc and paranoia that threaten to drown her with every lapping wave, hating him for caring about her.

She doesn't know which betrayal can be worse - him cheating or this fucking one.

Now, Meredith must be thinking that the only reason Derek cannot be with her is because his wife was ... _raped_.

She's an obligation.

 _Remember?_

Maybe that's the real truth.

* * *

 _"How is intimacy with your wife?"_

 _"... Intamacy? I'm not going to ask her, Dr. Bell. I mean, she was raped, so, of course, I don't want to push her to do anything that's going to make her uncomfortable. Who am I to, as a husband, try to have sex with his wife after she's been raped? ... So, I'm just going to have to be patient and wait."_

 _"What are you waiting for?"_

 _"For her to be comfortable around me again."_

* * *

She lies on a Thursday.

They fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed. Half of Derek's body practically hangs over the edge in his best attempt to _not_ touch her, while she curls on her side, her back to him, so they both wouldn't have to witness the reminder of the state they're in.

Months ago, he would have been thrilled by their current predicament.

Not touching her. Not acknowledging her. Not wanting her. Just completely ignoring the fact that there's a warmth lying beside him.

And - _wow, that seems like a million years ago_ \- she's all he can think about.

But what he can say is that he's much more content with their ... _situation_ than he ever was when this _situation_ all began, she's been doing better - less nightmares, less panic attacks, less outbursts. With that being said, less everything comes along more unpredictable and sporadic ones, especially of her insecurity of him running off into the wind, leaving her.

He doesn't know what to say to her to get the message through, that he will not.

He tries to look convincing whenever he tells her he won't and even puts on his best beside manner voice, still she doesn't seem to believe him at all. She'd nod or say ' _okay_ ', however it's very there in her eyes, he can see it, that she's waiting for the ' _but_ '.

It doesn't come, of course, and it's - she's getting a lot more frustrating.

He won't leave her.

He just can't.

She's his wife.

Her sleep isn't restful, or long. She's awake within an hour of drifting off, the bright red numbers of the digital alarm clock glaring the time back at her.

It's only midnight and she has to stay here in this damn trailer until at least seven ( _she has no other place to go to but the hospital and she can't even go there tonight because Meredith will be there. She doesn't want to take her chance of bumping into her and that unfortunately occurs a lot more than she would like_.).

Her husband is an asshole.

A selfish, untrustworthy, bullying asshole who has been smothering her with love and care and she thinks it's more annoying than anything.

He went behind her back, overstepped.

She's still angry at him.

She's now learned her lesson to never tell him anything at all.

 _Stupid! Stupid!_

She has control over so little in her life these days and losing that one more had scared her, angered her, but she doesn't want to let _them_ spiral out of control too.

It's all she has left now.

Him and her. And the idea of them.

So, she decides it's for the best that she would let this one go _un-argued_.

 _But how can she just forget that he'd went behind her back and told Meredith?_

 _And his concubine of all people?_

It doesn't even make any sense and it's definitely not his secret to tell.

She sighs into the overly starched pillow and attempts to unfurl her body, relax into the uncomfortable mattress, and unwind limb by limb. She should be tired; she hasn't been sleeping well - no surprise there - and work has been draining her these days.

She feels it in her bones, behind her eyes, she does, but her restlessness consumes her need for slumber with ease.

Well, her restlessness and the misery that now comes with being stuck in a room with her husband for the next six hours.

The mattress suddenly groans with the shift of Derek's frame, the exhale of his breath filling their tiny home, and she instinctively tenses. She does her best to ignore him, the jostling of the bed as he moves around in his sleep, apparently somewhat restless himself, until she finally feels him settle again.

She releases a shallow breath through her mouth and stares across the room, through the small window that offers a view of the outback, that's pretty much pitch black now. She wishes to get to her laptop to read, anything to occupy her mind until she passes out from lack of sleep or just stays awake for -

The sudden heat of his at her back has her spine going stiff, her cheeks immediately flushing with the unexpected contact. He's mumbling, slurring words, her name, his lips grazing the sensitive skin behind her ear.

The mattress creaks again and then his chest is framing her back. He sighs out, ribs expanding to press against hers, and his arm snakes to cinch around her waist. But now, she forgets how to breathe, practically goes into a minor bout of cardiac arrest when his hand, that large palm and those fingers, settles so comfortably over her ribs, just a tad bit too high for her liking.

Her heart is racing, pounding so loud she can't think past the deafening drumming, but she still expects to feel him go slack against her, fall back into a deeper sleep, so she can easily pry herself away. Instead, the change in positions, the drape of his body at her back, seems to snap him awake.

"Addie." he croaks, his voice hoarse with the brief hour's worth of sleep, his body jolting with awareness and going as stiff as hers has.

But the second he realises what he's done, where his touch had landed, he's immediately stuttering out an apology, jerking his hand back.

"I'm sorry."

She swallows, inhales through her nose to calm the wild cadence of her heart, and draws his hand to its previous place of rest, covers his knuckles with the drape of her palm, slides her fingers between his, and fits his hand back there.

"It's fine."

It's only fine, so long as they don't spiral out of control.

* * *

 _"You look exhausted."_

 _"Wow, you really do know how to woo a girl."_

 _"You know, one of the many flaws of us, human, is that we don't put ourselves first."_

 _"Dr. Bell, I'm the Chief of OB/GYN and Neonatal Surgery and I'm one of the best surgeons in my field. I have patients travelling across the world to receive my kind of surgical expertise, so, yes, I am exhausted. But it's my job, I love it. Just like you, I assume, love yours."_

 _"Yes, I do. And that is quite the resume there, and while that is a great accomplishment, you're avoiding your problems by surrounding yourself with more work than you can manage. You need to give yourself a break and look after yourself. Recovery is not only acknowledging the trauma, but health and self-care must come first too. There's no shame in taking a little me time."_

* * *

She finds her own quick fix on a Monday.

And it's easy.

And the effect is almost too refreshing. It's nice and free and missed.

It calms the raging storm in her mind so the wind can blow more gently and the thunder is now just a distant rumble. It gives her back the reins of control and the strength to take them.

She's cured.

Or maybe she just decides that things will be fine now - _and isn't that half the battle?_

Derek seemed to have accepted that too - and it wasn't entirely untrue, so she doesn't feel like she has lied to him entirely. In fact, it wasn't untrue at all, just not quite the whole truth.

And just as she knew she would, she's gotten things under control once more. _Mostly_. She's been able to eat a little more - at least in front of Derek, and she knows just that improvement makes him feel better more than anything else. More importantly, she's focused again and professional and calm at work. She doesn't scare and jump at all, she's comfortable and relaxed with everyone again. As comfortable and relaxed as she ever was. Actually she thinks she's even more relaxed. No one is giving her side glances or wrinkling their noses or asking if she's alright anymore.

She's sociable. She looks people in the eyes. She's back to her old self.

And the Xanax she's started taking is helping. It's really what she needed all along.

 _Right?_

She's _normal_ again.

 _So, why couldn't she have thought of taking them sooner?_

All those months wasted of being miserable in her head could've been avoided.

But she knows it's just a temporary fix, just a short-term solution until she's strong enough to handle the world again on her own.

But it's making one hell of a difference and she's pretty sure she's even fully convinced Derek that she's cured too (but _she ought to know on some level that her husband's silent demure doesn't equal to congratulatory, right?_ ).

She even thinks she might be able to have sex again. And soon too. It will be hard, she knows, but she can do it - and she's sure that once she gets through it the first time, every time after will be easier.

Like before.

It's just like getting into shape. The first few runs are painfully painful with agonising repercussions in the mornings, but you just have to suck it up, grit your teeth and keep at it until it isn't.

 _Right?_

Sex is a part of life and marriage, she knows she can't put it off forever.

* * *

 _"What were your intentions of telling your wife that?"_

 _"I don't know."_

 _"Were you hoping she'd leave you once you told her you're in love with Meredith?"_

 _"I don't know. Maybe."_

 _"So, you wouldn't be the bad guy who left his wife for another woman?"_

 _"... There was no way around it. Either way I'd be the bad guy. I guess, I hoped, maybe subconsciously, that if I told her, she'd be forced to see we were never going to work out and leave. Maybe ... but I don't want to leave her now and I don't want her to leave me too because - it's taken me for her to get hurt, to see her like that, you know, to be crying with her, for her, to realise I love being her husband more than I love Meredith. I love my wife more."_

 _"Have you tried expressing that to her?"_

* * *

Sometimes, she thinks she catches Callie and Miranda staring at her.

More than usual, that is.

She shows them her straight back when she's at the Nurses station, her arched shoulder, or hangs her head so her hair falls in front of her face.

She fears her secret is carved into her features, written there for all their perceptive intelligent minds to see. Or at least just enough to imagine it. So, instead of allowing anyone to decipher, she hides. She uses her posture by day, her tough words bitten with a stinging voice, and by night she scurries home to her husband and takes just one, so she can sleep in peace and undisrupted.

It's magic, really.

She thinks she'll sleep better now after a month of taking the pills, and she does. She no longer needs it for just a few hours of nightmare-free sleep or to get through a day at the hospital. But she has awoken the craving she had long ago put to sleep, and now the monster is hungry, starving, desperate.

She stops needing it every day, but she also stops seeing a life where she will never need it at all.

* * *

 _"I hate my job. I don't want to do it anymore. It's torture. It's depressing. I'm tired of lying. I'm tired of pretending that it's all going to be okay when it clearly isn't. I'm tired of handing stillborn babies to their mother. I'm tired of watching their heartbeat drop to a zero. I'm tired of watching them die. I'm tired of diagnosing women with cancer. I'm tired of telling a husband that his wife has died on my table. I'm just tired of it all. I hate my job. If I knew it'd be like this, I'd have majored in something boring or where nothing depressing ever happens like liberal arts or political science, statistics and accounting even sounds promising."_

 _"Just last week you were in here, insisting you love your job, what's changed?"_

 _"I've just told you."_

 _"Yes, but you've been doing the same job for years, haven't you? The line of work you're in, you must know you'll have bad days, am I right? What's changed your mind today?"_

 _"... There was this girl. A baby. Barely sixteen. She was brought to the ER ... found unconscious on a college campus. It was some stupid frat party. A man was assaulting her ... luckily, another student happened to be passing by and he pulled him off her ... I was called later, she was walking on a pelvic fracture and started bleeding. I just got downstairs when everything happened so quickly. We couldn't get her upstairs because there wasn't any time. We tried everything we could to stabilise the bleeding and her BP, but she was still crashing. So, I told them to do a pre-peritoneal pelvic packing but ... she coded before we could even cut."_

 _"I'm so sorry."_

 _"I saw her hands ... afterwards. I couldn't stop staring at them. Her fingers were all mangled and bruised and her nails, they were chipped and scraped and crusted with blood. She was brave. She fought him off as much as she could."_

* * *

Dr. Bell sees her after a little over a month again. He becomes suspicious when she came into the session after he turned down her plea for pills, calm and wearing the composed mask of Dr. Montgomery ( _Shepherd_ ).

"You _seem_ to be coping better."

The word ' _seem_ ' is not lost on her, who knows he is prompting her to explain, not trusting the woman he sees.

She smiles, and for the first time since talking to him, she lies.

"It was Derek." she spins. "He reminded me that ... _that man_ only has my life if I let him take it."

"A wise man." he comments, but there is scepticism in his tone. Addison's smile remains. She took one just before she came in, and she does not falter.

But just weeks later, he asks her, gently, if she've taken something.

She lies, of course, but the question caught her off guard, and for a few stumbling seconds, she had only been able to blink at him, wondering if her secret had burned through her purse for him to see it too.

She ducks away from his gaze almost as soon as she has answered, and she knows she might as well have dug into her bag and showed him the bottle, herself.

Still, she can always stop seeing him if she wants to.

* * *

 _"The first thing you need to understand, Derek, is that rape isn't just a physical trauma. Have you ever known someone who is deathly afraid of fire or water, even though they have never been in an accident? Or someone who flares up when you touch their possessions without prior permission? The physical injuries are easy to get over with, but it is mental trauma that lingers on."_

. . . .

 _"Why do you think your husband is going to leave you?"_

 _"You already asked me this."_

 _"I feel like there's another aspect here. Be true to yourself. Why do you think Derek will leave you?"_

 _"He loves Meredith."_

 _"Is that the truth?"_

 _"Addison?"_

 _"Because I - because of what happened - I was raped - No, I'm sorry, I can't do this, Dr. Bell."_

 _"Hey, hey, listen, you're doing great, okay. Acknowledgment is good. Just take a deep breath and continue when you're ready."_

 _"... I'm sorry."_

 _"Are you ready now?"_

 _"Because I feel so useless. If I'd just not overreacted that night - to what he said - it was really nothing. He's said worse things to me before but that - he loves her and he hasn't even said that to me ... not since since it happened - you know, he can't look at me without thinking about it. He thinks he's so inconspicuous about it, but I know him. Is that why he - that's why he - he thinks I'm dirty and damaged and you know ... she's not. Why wouldn't I think he won't leave me?"_

* * *

She falls apart on a Thursday.

It overwhelms her, at first. The sheer magnitude of today's surgery, almost imposing but not really, as doctor congratulate her success.

She smiles through the kind words and tells them the success wasn't all just because of her.

Dr. Burke and her were able to give a sick tiny two-day old a second chance at life, almost couldn't halfway through because of his very restricted atrial septum. It's a high risk surgery and a miraculous one, at that.

But it's a high like she hasn't experienced in a while, perhaps ever in her entire life, and for a few passing hours, she's on top of the world.

So much so that she forgets.

It's pushed so far to the back of her mind that she thinks, with optimism, that it's unreachable, and for good this time.

But, of course, it wouldn't make it all go away.

Not just yet.

That night, as she's still revelling in her own triumph, Callie takes her out to Joe's, and it's normal, and she's normal, and everything feels so good and _normal_ and right and how it's always suppose to feel. And Preston even buys them drinks to celebrate today's accomplishments and future endeavours before leaving, and she has a little bit too much to drink.

Or maybe it's just that she shouldn't be mixing alcohol with Xanax - and yea, she should know better, because that right there is probably the reason why she's become a bit too happy too quickly, now that she thinks about it.

But it's not like the last time she went out drinking. Not at all. She's not that entirely drunk since she can still rationalise her own thoughts and words, Callie's too, and speak _unslurred_ at the same time. _Normal_. She feels awakened, reborn, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, like a normal, ordinary human being again.

Someone had even bumped into her - no, no, he basically plowed into her and she didn't even react.

 _Nope. Not at all._

She's proud of that.

It's Callie who's shouting on her behalf.

It's totally okay. She's totally okay.

She's even laughing it off now.

 _Numb_.

She's numb.

That searing pain that should have set her shoulders afire and left her fingertips scorched in their wake when he crashed into her hasn't left her in chills and goosebumps at all. That sharp bite she should feel at the top of her spine, the reminder of angry hands around her neck, the ache of each landing on an unforgiving mattress - none of it is there as a warning or rebuke.

Then, Derek walks in and she sees him scan across the bar until their eyes meet and greet and it's one of disappointment and annoyance she sees.

 _Great!_

Now her face is contorted with something else and when the loneliness strikes, fierce and breathtaking, she knows she's not nearly numb enough.

He's watching her now, scowling at her maybe, with that concerned look on his face, the one that seems to be permanently etched on his features now, whether she's at home and getting out of the bathroom or at work passing each other at the hallways or eating breakfast at the table, and so she turns her back to him, she doesn't appreciate that look - pity and care and something she can't pinpoint but it's so irritating - and tells Callie that they should get a table.

It makes her feel guilty, but that's a familiar feeling these days, so it's easy to squash, like a mosquito or a cockroach.

The intern, one of Bailey's, the soft one with the kind puppy eyes - _what's_ _his name_ \- calls out for Callie and they join him at the table. She's telling them a story of when she was an intern and - oh and she's pretty sure they're hooking up too, but she's certainly not going to say anything. Not now anyway. Later, she won't even be able to remember what she was talking about, but it doesn't really matter.

She tries to flag down Joe at the bar, tries to get another drink, when all of a sudden Derek is standing behind her. The bar is immensely jam packed - a cop's retirement party, she thinks - so, he's practically pressed up behind her, and she tries ruefully to bite down any reaction that's threatening to spill and keeps her cool instead. And, of course, smiling through the distaste.

He's abhorrent and displeased with her, she can sense what her husband is thinking, oozing, he's never really ever so discreet. And when he speaks into her ear, his hot and angry breaths condenses the words against her cold skin, "I want to head out." and she flinches before she can stop herself, a gasp, possibly a scream, falling from her lips as she fumbles feebly to catch it.

However it is a strong enough reaction that everyone around her turns and quietens for a while before resuming to chatter.

She curses under her breath, swallows hard, all the while trying to keep a straight face. She's pushing it way way back in her mind, trying to stop it from resurfacing too, because she remembers, remembers, and remembers what _he'_ d seethed into her ear.

 _You like being fucked like this, don't you?_

His cruel, icy words is in her ears.

But Derek must know she wouldn't like being crept up like that.

 _You like being fucked like this, don't you?_

He looks sorry, she can tell by how his brows glower at her, his frown and apologetic eyes ( _don't mistake pity with apology, Addison._ ). But when he looks at Callie and then, the intern, the three of them all sharing a look and for a second there her lungs seizes to contract, she thinks he might just tell them her secret.

 _Why wouldn't he?_

He's been spilling it like tea all this time.

And she thinks of doing the one thing she knows best, but detachment will not work here, not in a room full of people, who has no idea that she's trapped in her own body, in her own mind.

She can't get away from _that night_ , no matter how hard she tries.

And she tries again and she tries all over again, doubling the effort after each try, but it's like her conscience doesn't want her to ever forget.

It wants her to remember, remember and remember that she has no control over her own body and mind anymore, that he is going to come gliding through the walls and snatch whatever she has left.

"Okay." she shrugs, tries to emit a chuckle but her body and face stays stiff. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and it's hard to get words out given how little oxygen her lungs are taking in. "See you at home, then."

She smiles, but doesn't kiss him like she normally would. She can't risk her composure right now and so, she turns back to her friend and _her_ friend and they're both looking at her now with that same look.

 _Pity. Sad. Poor, Addison._

She ignores it.

 _Shit! They know._

She goes to lean over at the bar because this is an emergency and she's so desperate for another drink right now. "Hey, Joe!" she calls, and maybe - _yea, her tone sounds a little too much too desperate, but that's just what you need to do to get service in a crowded bar, right?_ "Can we get another round?"

Derek notices what she's trying to do, she can tell, sees it in the way he studies her. The more she recognises the hurt and concern building behind his eyes every single day, the more she evades, the more she plasters on a smile whenever she can and assures him that she's fine.

It's not enough tonight, though.

He gently grips at her arm and tugs, so she'll face him.

She tries not to squirm in them, but they're like steam kissing her skin. "Come on." his voice is seethingly low, quiet, he's testing how he should go about this.

 _Stern. Straight. Serious._

"It's late. You have an early surgery tomorrow."

"I'm fine." she says, her eyes narrowing slightly at the hold he has on her arm, willing them to let go. Still, he doesn't. "But you should go. I can get home myself. I'll take a cab."

But then, he steps away from her peripheral vision and towers right in front of her, much taller and furious this time. " _Addison_." her name ends with a heavy and deep sigh - a so frustrated, so fed up kind of exhale. "Let's go _now_."

Oh, but she won't give up, of course, will hold on with the same stubbornness that got her here. But just as she was about to come up with a response, Callie touches her hand lightly. "Hey," she says, "We're gonna head out anyway too, right?" she then turns to - _what's his name_ \- and he stutters and nods back at them.

 _Great!_

She glares up at Derek and he does the same back, only his is expressionless, doesn't even care to blink at her. There's something twisted about it, though, and a faint frown is stitched between his eyebrows.

He doesn't back down.

He's not amused.

She's the one who does, as always. "Fine. See you tomorrow, then." she speaks slowly, as if to control herself from screaming every harsh word she can think of.

It's humiliating, shameful.

This is degrading.

He's embarrassing her in front of her friends.

He's an asshole.

She wants to ram her fists into his face and tell him to just stop. Stop taking care of her, stop acting like he can save her, and fix her as if he remotely even loves her.

"Addison, your -" She doesn't let him finish and roughly yanks her arm out of his hand and scuttles out of the bar as fast as she can, her head bowed away from onlookers ( _as if she's that important, but she can't help it, she feels like everyone's watching her._ ) and her coat coming around her like a coat of armour.

 _Crying is only the release of deafening screams. Anger is better._

She has no idea why she's so angry.

No idea at all.

 **XXX**

There's a flame burning inside of her, ready to combust and break something.

She doesn't speak to him the whole ride home, although he tries, several times in fact. She doesn't acknowledge the voice that's next to her. It's just easier to ignore him, close her eyes and press her head against the cold, pitter-pattering window.

He finally stays quiet too.

 _Familiar._

When they finally get into the trailer, she throws her purse and coat haphazardly somewhere onto the ground and stalks to the bathroom, still not wanting to acknowledge the voice calling out to her.

"Addison!" he shouts louder, angrier this time, " _Addison_!"

The echoing noise of her name keeps her from falling and she spins sharply on her heels, "You said you were tired, so go - go to bed!" she snaps.

She has no idea why she's being so bitchy because she knows Derek means only the best for her, but it's like she can't control it, can't handle any of her emotions anymore.

He growls a roar that rattles their home, and it stops her in her tracks right then and there. There's this fear that's coursing through her unexpectedly, like a bug beneath her skin, crawling through her veins, poisoning her.

"I'm so sick and tired of this!" he shouts, the exasperation threading his tone cuts her like a ten blade.

She just stands there, pulls and peels and picks at the loose skin on the bed of her thumb, stopping only when she feels a sharp sting and sees the prickle of red. And goes at it again.

He throws his jacket on the bed, and she jumps like he's smacked her across the face. "It's like you can't for one goddamn second just stop - stop and listen to me or anyone!"

 _Oh no ... Oh no ... Oh no ..._

"I don't understand _you_ at all! What is it that you _really_ want? Because you - I'm trying my best here and I can't! It doesn't make any sense to me that you - you're sabotaging yourself, like you don't want to move on from this at all! I don't know what's going on in your head because you don't want to talk to me! I don't know what's wrong with you! I don't know what the hell I'm suppose to do, Addison! I'm so tired of constantly walking on eggshells around you!"

Her heart is pounding inside her mouth, literally, sucking all the moisture and all the life from her until she can almost feel herself beginning to drift again, her mind giving way to the utter panic gripping her.

She doesn't hear him.

Dr. Bell had thought her something about breathing exercises, only she can't remember exactly how to do that.

She knows he's shouting but the words he's firing like bullets doesn't conjuring up to her understanding. It's like he's speaking a foreign language and her sudden illiteracy is probably because her brain is short-circuiting to the fact that it's the first time in almost five months that he's lost it.

It's the first time he's really let any anger or irritation bestow.

And it's terrifying her.

He's going to leave her, she realises now.

 _He's tired of her._

There's a tsunami of panic flooding her throat, churning her stomach. He's not going to be able to take this anymore - _who would want to stay with her, so much baggage, so broken, so insecure, so sad and crazy_ \- and he's going to leave her.

She has to stop this and pull it together, and she has to do it right now.

 _Quickly._

"... You don't want _me_ to do anything and that's exactly what I did - you didn't want to report it, even though, as your husband, I should've. I begged you, Addison, we didn't have to go to Seattle Grace, you still didn't want to. You can handle this on your own, that's what you said. Remember? And now, look what you've done."

It's true. She has ruined everything for herself.

And he's going to leave her for Meredith.

 _Why wouldn't he?_

She closes her eyes and lets his words run around and around, biting and nipping at her skin like a woodpecker. She wants it to hurt.

"What do you want me to do? Can't you see it's killing me too, Addison? You were _raped_. You're my wife. You're a part of me."

"Derek." she whispers.

She recalls the obstacles that have kept her away from reality – a few of them real, but most fabricated by fear – and swears she'll make things right if she can just find a way to survive tonight. All their longing and denial and laughter and fighting can't end this way, and she chokes on regret when one exhausted part of her gives out.

She turns around, takes a few hesitant steps towards him. "I'm sorry." she chokes, tears clouding her vision. "Derek, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please."

Her legs are jelly and she thinks she might even fall, but she goes to him anyway, taking his face in her hands.

 _Disgust. Disquietude. Disappointment._

He shakes his head, looks as though he wants to pull away, but he doesn't.

"Please." she whispers, pushing his forehead to hers, begging him to look her in the eyes, pleading for him to see how sorry she is. "Please. Please, Derek. I - I'll see Dr. Bell again, okay? I'll see him tomorrow, okay? Just - please?"

But he still refuses to look at her.

None at all.

 _No. No. No._

She has to do something.

She can't bare this.

And then, her body - so devoid of energy since Christmas - jumpstarts, pouncing onto him so hard and so fast that they almost topple to the floor together.

She kisses him desperately, frantically and hard enough to bruise, to ease the burning beneath her skin. And then, she clutches his biceps with her hands quivering, fighting the brewing anxiety in the pit of her stomach by screaming over and over and again and again in her head - _It's Derek! It's Derek!_

 _It's Derek! It's Derek!_

He lets her kiss him, even tangling his hands in her hair for a moment, and just when she thinks they're okay, he pushes her away, pries.

There's this noise somewhere. An anguished wail that's either way off in the distance and she's tuned to it's frequency above everything else, or just very loud and very close by.

 _Was that her?_

She has no idea. Her senses seem to have abandoned her long ago.

 _Oh God ... Oh God ... Oh God ..._

He's talking to her, she thinks; his mouth is moving fast, but she can't seem to hear the words. All she can hear is the voices in her head telling her that he's going to leave, that he doesn't want her anymore, that he's going to kick her out again, that she's finally _finally_ gone too far.

That no one could ever possibly love her once they get to know the real her, just like she've always known.

She's too damaged now.

And right now, standing in front of the man she loves with wet hair and a broken body, she is pretty damn sure he's already stopped loving her back.

It's over.

Everything is falling, tumbling, crashing down around her and she's falling too. Down, down, down the rabbit hole. She doesn't end up in Wonderland, though.

Instead, maybe it's the alcohol, or the Xanax, or the terror coursing through her veins, she ends up with the one thing in mind that would and could possibly make him stay.

She pushes him back against the bed.

It's a rush, the manic coursing through her veins, and she knows she's trembling with it, her cheeks flushed and hot and wet with tears, but she forces herself to kneel in front of him, to unbuckle his belt, to work his zipper down.

"Addison!" she hears.

His voice is high, scared, tentative, like he's more than just shocked and words are just splurging out.

"Addison! What, what are - Stop!"

His hands are grabbing at her, but she doesn't stop.

"I'm sorry." she says, fighting to keep the tremble in her voice to a minimum, but it's so hard. "Derek, I love you, okay? Please, I love you."

She's had all kinds of sex.

 _Remember?_

Even unconsented sex to add to the list. So, this ... this is nothing.

"Please." she begs, shaking hands working him out of his boxers. "Please, let me, Derek. Please. I want this. I love you."

"No. Stop, Addie. Stop it. Please." he shouts, and for a minute too long they're practically fighting each other - she's trying to push his hands away, so he can't stop her, and he's trying to pull her to her feet, so she can't do what she's about to do.

"Addison! Addison!"

More tears spill. She can't stop them.

"Don't you want me anymore?" her voice is sharp and pleading, seeking salvation from the husband who had said he was done. "Please, I want to do this! I need to do this!"

He stops pushing her away.

She takes him in her mouth, trying not to gag, trying not to cry anymore.

 _It's Derek. It's only Derek._

 **XXX**

The blow job was a mistake.

She knows that as soon as she finishes, pulling away just before he's done.

She sits down heavily on the floor, gasping for breath.

She doesn't know what to do, where to go now.

She finally chances a look at Derek.

He's crying.

His glare has yet to thaw and his fists are clenched at his side on the edge of the bed and he looks so damn scared and every weary line on his face is because of her.

He's afraid of her.

She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if she should apologise, or try to kiss him again.

 _Maybe they should have sex now?_

 _Should she take off her clothes?_

She isn't sure.

Then, her fingers are at the buttons of her blouse and he clears his throat quickly to stop her. "That's enough, Addie." he shrugs, his shoulders driven by sadness more than anything else.

Nothing makes any sort of sense.

He zips up his pants, his eyes never leaving her face. It's like he can't move, but then again, neither can she.

"Is this - are we okay?" she tries a whispers.

"I don't know."

She nods at that, because as much as it stings, it's fair.

But now, she's watching him pace the sight of her, his hand scrubbing his face as though he can wash the hurt away, and there's so little she can do to help.

She tries to fix it, tries to explain. "I just - I love you." she whispers, her voice barely audible through the tears.

 _But that's not the whole truth, Addison._

"I'm so sorry. Oh, Derek, I shouldn't have - I shouldn't have …"

But she's not about to tell him she's terrified that he'll leave her for Meredith and that's why she did what she did.

She crawls onto bed beside him, she still has time to salvage what's left, and this time, he's the one who flinches when her hand settles on his shoulder.

She erupts into another round of messy snotty sobs, unable to control herself anymore, and buries her face in her hands.

"I'm sorry." she hiccups through each syllable, the apology dropping lifeless between them.

After eleven years of marriage, they've finally found a perfect rhythm while having none at all, pushing and pulling and wounding and healing and making so much progress while getting nowhere.

"You always are."

. . .

 _The brain is the human body's most mysterious organ. It learns. It changes. It adapts. It tells us what we see, what we hear. It lets us feel love. I think it holds our soul. And no matter how much research we do, no one can really say how all that delicate grey matter inside our skull works. And, when it's hurt, when the human brain is traumatised, well, that's when it gets even more mysterious. "_

 _\- Callie Torres_

* * *

 _ **Thanks for reading guys. Am I accurate? Or too far off? Do you think she would've acted this way or maybe some other version of rock bottom? I think the assault really affected her confidence, it changed her and her psyche. Also, it would have amplified the flaws she already possesses a tenfold like her clinginess to men, desperation and need for love, the self-medicating and other risky behaviours. Right? I don't know. What do you think?**_

 _ **I'm a sucker for angst. Forgive me. Maybe too much?**_

 _ **Okay, okay, enough of me ... I'd like to know what you think.**_

 _ **Please leave a review!**_

 _ **I'm going to go work on Karma now.**_


	7. Don't You Know, His Name is John Doe, Ad

**Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 ** _Chapter Seven_**

Don't You Know, His Name is John Doe, Addie.

* * *

 _. . .Do. Whatever. The. Fuck. You. Want . . ._

-:-

 _(John Doe_ _hid in plain sight for her to find him, she just didn't know it yet. She hadn't a clue that she had to look for him to save herself._ _Because why else would she be looking for a man that isn't her husband?)_

Your tenth girl in two days - she'll be your lucky ten - and you caught her out of the corner of your eye at a fully stocked bar.

An unfamiliar side of town and you're staring at a woman you do not know or recall at all, but she has a not so _unfamiliar_ face - granted, they all look very much the same once you're done with them.

She has red hair and pale, pale skin and you think she could even be passing for your wife, but Emma has a splattering of freckles across her nose and her hair is fiercer. Hers are more subtle, almost ordinary, but still, she caught your _attention_.

She seems like she'd try and put up one hell of a fight, you like the challenge, so you stay and watch her discretely, nursing your drink slowly because you'd like to be lucid during your performance later tonight.

You chuckle lightly to yourself because you're very impressed with your accomplishments so far. You think you ought to be awarded and be honoured with one of those Medal of Honour things that military _men_ get.

 _(She wants to leave Joe's, but she doesn't. Her husband will show up, she successfully convinces herself to believe - she's manipulative like that, even to her own mind - so she continues to wait._ _That's all she can really do now because she did this to their marriage. She, unknowingly, gave him the upper hand. He's in control now and can hold whatever against her just because he can. She_ _opened up Pandora's box when she slept with his best friend and gave him a billion and one more reasons to treat her the way he does. And it's okay - it's okay because it's all her fault and she knows it.)_

It's the best view in the house since you are able to see and hear everything, literally, even though you're at a noisy bar.

You figured it out, this spot is like the whispering gallery - you saw something about that on TV a while back.

 _Proud_. Of course, you're God, the _unreigned_ messiah and you give yourself a pat on the back for choosing the right spot.

 _Good job._

She keeps checking her watch and you know that means she's waiting for someone. You check yours too - twenty minutes passed - and you just know she's going to be easy.

A man slides into the seat next to her then, and you watch as her face light up with a smile at his presence and you're able to see the moment she tries to lean in, only a fraction of an inch, expecting a peck on the cheek or something, and doesn't get one.

 _Maybe_.

Maybe.

He doesn't notice it at all or maybe he just pretends that he doesn't, and it amuses you because something is going wrong with their relationship.

You don't feel sorry for her or him. You don't feel sorry for them. You don't care. You don't know them. Even if you do, you still won't care.

It's not your problem.

 **-:-**

A sparkle from across your table catches your attention and you look to her hand to a see a wedding band on her left ring finger that you hadn't noticed before.

 _Married_.

He isn't wearing one and you just know she's a lying, cheating whore.

You have your mind set on her so you order yourself another drink and he does too, a single malt scotch.

Of course, you're not surprised.

"We used to love Christmas, Derek ... what happened to us?"

 _Oh, come on._

He hates it when _they_ act stupid.

"Christmas makes you want to be with people you love."

She touches his hand and he pulls back before speaking again and you don't bother to listen to their conversation anymore; they're boring you.

You wait, you lurk, you're patient - no, you're anything but. You need to do something _to her_ right this instant.

They don't say anything else. They don't even move or look at each other.

This is all getting very dramatic and you almost - just almost want to leave. You don't think she's even worth waiting for anymore, there are plenty of fishes out there.

Then, she quickly grabs his drink, downs it and leaves, storming out of the bar without a word. You think this Derek dude will call out after her or follow, but he doesn't.

A breakup.

You called it, you knew she would be too easy.

You follow her.

 **-:-**

It isn't surprising to you that she ends up at another bar, drowning in her sorrows.

 _(Drink up. Shut your eyes. Breathe. Don't forget to dream.)_

You buy her a drink after she's had a dozen and a half.

The bartender then points at you and you know, from the look she's giving you, that she's flattered.

She's like all of them and you give her a smile, the same kind of smirk they all can't resist.

 _Bullseye_

It's your first time to really _really_ look at her. So you take this opportunity to stare _stare_ at her, study her from head to heals.

Your first thought is that she isn't beautiful, but stunning, striking and you like the intelligence in her eyes, the amused slant to her mouth _(she's asking for it)_ , with a tangle of long red hair _(you'll use that to your advantage)_ , and a body that won't quit _(asking for it again)._ There is no cleavage to speak of under the white sweater of hers but her legs can very well go on for days and her cheekbones are sharp enough to cut glass.

And with her age, she might as well be the devil in disguise.

Your second thought is that she's dangerous, and she is, because when she goes up to you, her eyes flash blood red and her lips part in a smile that's nothing but wicked and depraved, it doesn't matter how good she looks or the way her lips part to form a perfect circle, because she is the devil incarnate and you like imagining, not for long, though, all the things you're going to do to her.

"Let's get out of here."

Your third thought is that demon or no demon, the woman does know how to do things with her tongue, and when you slam her back onto the wall behind the bar, you almost can't resist her anymore and when she tangles her fingers in your hair and presses her mouth against yours and slips her tongue inside, and when she palms the front of your trousers and grips you in warning, she made you change your mind about doing _it_ right here and right now at the back alley.

She's your lucky number ten, after all, it should be one to remember.

"Your place," she finally says, speaking your mind, and pushes a lock of dark red behind her ear.

You're both breathing kind of hard and unlike your last girl, you don't mind her assertiveness and you know it's not so bad because when she looks at you dead in the eyes, you catch more pain and sadness lurking behind her irises and you quite like it.

She's hurt and you're going to help make her forget all about the boyfriend with the perfect hair back at the other bar.

 **-:-**

As you walk over to the parking lot, she tells you something about why she doesn't have a car, you don't care for it but you make noncommittal responses to sound like you do and you hold onto her tight because she's stumbling all over the place, like a baby who's just taken their first steps.

She's a lot drunker than you expect, all weighty and heavy dragging next to you and you think you should wrap an arm around her waist to keep her from pitching forward but you're a tad too late now and you watch her fall to her knees, landing in the gravel and wincing because the tiny rocks sliced into the skin of her palm.

You're now at the point where you're starting to get really annoyed of her. You certainly can just leave her behind right there and go find yourself another girl but you've done and gone through so much already tonight and waited far too long for her.

She's not worth all the hassle, though. She's older than you, by not much, almost a decade, but that's not a turn off for you.

 _(Is this what rock bottom feels like? It must. She's literally down on her hands and knees, still, bottom on Seattle's streets and she don't think life's even worth getting back up anymore.)_

You don't listen to your other half, you just roll your eyes before crouching down next to her and springing her back up by both her arms. Her eyes are open wide, wide as they'll stretch and she's alternately looking at you like a saviour and a living embodiment of all things that go bump in the night.

"Thank you."

You then pry her hands away from her jeans, where she's crossed bloody palms all over, and leaving a smear of blood on her skin, and examines her torn palm in the moonlight, eyes watching how the blood oozes from the shallow wound to the rhythm of her pulse.

You say softly and closes her fist around the blood. "I have a first-aid kit in the car. Come here, I'll patch you back up."

You talk to her slowly, the way you do with kids, and smile reassuringly before finally leading her into your car.

"I'm - I'm a mess - Sorry."

That, you won't dispute.

"This will sting a little," you tell her and you watch her brace herself.

She winces when you swab her torn palm with peroxide, and you're tempted to kiss it to make it all better, but that would just be too over the top creepy.

You've learnt, a while ago, that trust goes a long way.

Except she's holding herself rigidly, teeth piercing her bottom lip, spine stiff as a board, and she's staring straight ahead instead of running her eyes over your profile the way women usually do.

She's lost in her own world and you can just guess what/who she's thinking about.

"All done."

You, then, give her hand an awkward pat when you're finished bandaging her palm, and she smiles at you gratefully, but still hasn't said anything.

"Are you okay?" You ask. "Do you want me to drive you home instead?"

You hold your breath, you're taking a huge risk here.

" _Home_ ..." she says it under her breath, shrugging, "No." and your smile matches hers.

You're elated.

And you're still wondering if it's a succubus you're dealing with rather than a sad, pathetic middle-aged woman who had just gotten dumped.

Well, you're fine either way but you prefer the _latter_.

 **-:-**

A rolled joint, you turn the radio up, shut the windows, and lock the doors ... just in case.

 _Just in case._

She won't leave. She can't, even if she tried.

 _But why would she?_

You're doing nothing wrong, after all.

Absolutely nothing.

She got into your car out of her own accord. You gave her a chance to go home ( _well, not exactly, but she doesn't have to know that)._ She _demanded_ that you take her back to your apartment and she initiated the kiss first as well.

You haven't done anything wrong all night.

The lights are dim at your place and the curtains are drawn. Photographs of your family are all hidden away, never to be seen or traced by your lucky ten. You'll put them back up later before your wife gets back from visiting her parents. You only get to play around once in a while, so when you do, you take full advantage of your opportunity.

You don't say a word once you're in your apartment, you don't even offer her a drink, and she just follows behind you like a dog trailing behind its master, nevertheless. And you don't spare another second wandering around, waiting - you've waited all night long already and you were nothing but cordial and politely with her, both at the bar and outside. You even fixed her back up.

You want what you want and she's going to give it to you.

It's the same thing you're doing to her right now that she did to you outside of the bar and you continue to dance around inside her mouth, pressing and rubbing your entire body with hers eagerly, roughly grasping a handful of her hair in your palm before gathering them in a ponytail and you push hard against her and tug her hair at the same time.

It feels _exquisite_.

You can feel her tensing against you immediately; you're quick and you turn her around so that her back is to your front, pressing eagerly into her so she can feel all that she's doing to you.

She doesn't scream. Maybe it's because you're basic crushing her into the wall and she just doesn't have enough air to scream.

But you think you like this better.

And then, you hear _them_ begin to panic.

You feel resistance as she tries to push you back, pull you away, and her hands even comes around to yank at your arms and chest; it's futile and easy for you and you know she knows it too.

It starts with the chest, then the arms and lastly, the face, and if you're not careful enough, they won't hesitate to claw or gouge your eyes out.

She cries out; all the sparks kindled at once, fire spreading within you at an alarming rate. It is a never-ending cycle of bliss as you continue to thrust vigorously and pull her hair, again and again, harder each time, her pain melding into your pleasure.

You relive tonight in accompaniment with all your other nights.

Girl number seven and three were no fun.

Girl number one and four and five were your favourites. Now, you think number ten has beaten them all to the top.

 _Ten._

Instead, you push her down onto your bed and you see her thoughts - _nay, a cocktail of panic and fear_ \- running across her face.

 _Power. Control. Pleasure._ They all go hand in hand.

"NO -"

"I'm sorry," escapes from under your breath.

You're not.

She must have seen it/you coming, that is what you were intending, but you react before she could and clasp both her wrist together and turn her over onto her stomach.

"Stop."

You don't care to look into her eyes.

"Mmm, your ass."

She screamed with no noise or maybe there was, you wouldn't know. All you can hear are the blood and excitement screaming, rushing and pulsing lively in your ear.

It's music for you.

You held her by the back of her head, twist her hair around your fist and pushed, smothering her to the mattress. This time you hear a scream - given, it's muffled, but very much a desperate cry.

"Get off me!"

You like _them_ powerless and in pain so you dig a knee into her back and you roughly yank her hair back and to another contentment of yours, you hear a bloodcurdling cry of pain that does not make your blood curdle.

"No. Not like this please."

You don't understand what that means because this is the only way.

"But you like being fucked like this, yeah."

She's a fighter, a vixen, a lot stronger than you expected - you'll give her that.

It amuses you, you're impressed with her agility and strength, but you're stronger.

" _NO!"_

Of course, you're stronger. You're a man. So, you win. You'll always win.

 _(Lie down. Count to ten. You're free to leave, only in your mind, though. Imagine so many things, anything but what's really happening.)_

She's a woman, so you give it to her one more time because you can.

She's trapped _beneath_ you, but you'd like to see her face, porcelain white, hair bright and red.

She doesn't look at you. Her eyes are closed and that's okay. You can still look at her as you crush her soul while a rhythm forms.

Her own feelings are yours to control now. You like it, _control_. You feel great about yourself and everything that comes along and you tell her she did great too.

"Don't deny _it_ ," you say knowingly and it's only then that she looks at you square in the eyes, her bottom lip chewing and you both share a thought.

She knows what you're talking about.

You leave her lying there, confused and ... well, you don't really know what she's feeling - in fact, you don't care to know - to shower and by the time you come out of the bathroom with clouds of steam following behind you, she's gone.

 **-:-**

 _(Run through the pain. It will stop stinging soon. Just keep moving. Move and get away. Get away. Let the air wash off his scent._

 _Purple ... green ... black ... a gash. She doesn't want to answer any of Derek's questions. She doesn't want to describe him._

 _Swallow hard, he's not inside you now. You're free to breathe again. It's over.)_

You cover your tracks and throw out the sheets.

 _(But in her mind, the pictures still play, like a movie scene, a scratch on a track. He's on the other side of the screen whenever she closes her eyes.)_

Tell yourself she asked for it, tell yourself it was just sex. Tell yourself that just like the sheets you've thrown, she's a taint of another girl.

 _(She can taste him, salt and sweat. They all see what she see at first - a decent man, not an animal._

 _He'll tell them she's crazy. He'll tell them she was drunk. He'll get some sick satisfaction out of lying through his barely concealed wolf grin.)_

But then, you find her BlackBerry hidden in between the mattress and headboard.

You keep it as your trophy. A reminder of your lucky ten, your best girl.

 _(Derek has left her and she has nothing now, nothing but evidence, which she is. She_ _wants to go home, so she steps into the tiny shower in the trailer. If she goes to the police, she can't go home right away and she wants that. Home. New York. And n_ _ot to mention all the embarrassment she'll have to face. She and her family. All her activities leading up to it was a yes and she just knows her ten_ nos _won't matter.)_

You're free to prowl again.

 _(John Doe found eleven and twelve ... but she won't find him, because she's not really looking. She doesn't really want to know. She wants to be fooled.)_


	8. Nobody Ever Talks About Us, Addison

**_To Guest, this chapter is for you._**

 ** _I do not want you to feel as though you weren't heard, you were, so my apologies for the lack of updates. My apologies to everyone as well. It's been a long minute. I have been going through some things and it's just a really difficult time now but I've been trying my best (trust me) to write here and there and whenever I could._**

 ** _Also, all of your story/one-shot suggestions and ideas have been duly noted. I will try to make them come to life for you. If you have a preference on which story idea you'd like me to write first just tell me, so I could plan out the storyline._**

 ** _To everyone, gratitude for your support and understanding and for still sticking around._**

* * *

 **Warning. Mentions of sexual assault. Warning. Read with caution.**

* * *

 **Find Your Voice**

 ** _Chapter Eight_**

Nobody Ever Talks About Us, Addison.

* * *

 _. . .No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear. . ._

-:-

 _"I'm sorry, Derek. I shouldn't have - I shouldn't have"_

 _"... I'm sorry." she hiccups through each syllable, the apology dropping lifeless between them._

 _After eleven years of marriage, they've finally found a perfect rhythm while having none at all, pushing and pulling and wounding and healing and making so much progress while getting nowhere._

 _"You always are."_

...

They say that silence speaks volumes, but they must have never heard the howling winds of a shattering heart tearing the clouds apart, like the thundering screams of a broken sky.

She is terrified of thunderstorms, has always been, yet she is a storm of her own.

Blank walls.

 _Blank_ ... _Walls ..._

The walls here are blank, cold and hard. In New York, the bedroom walls are accented, marble white paired with a beige upholstered headboard and silvered pendants. It was comforting and crisp, warm and all-encompassing that tell her to never be afraid.

 _Never be afraid._

She faces the window with the covers enveloping her into welcomed darkness. Perhaps _'enveloping'_ wouldn't be the correct term here, it's more moiré and superimposed and true to that soul-sucking, all-consuming her entirety to a whole other dimension, as though it's taking a life of it's own.

And she doesn't care. She lets it take over.

 _Mind. Body. Matter._

She's been lying here for a while now, in silence and alone - Derek insisted on taking the couch. It's a very small couch, she knows he's going to be uncomfortable, maybe even wake up with a crink in the morning, but he - he said he needed space.

 _"Why?"_

 _"I just need it - to think. I'm not going anywhere, Addison. I'm barely ten feet away."_

 _"Derek."_

And that was that. He took his own pillow and headed straight for the two-seater sofa without even so much as looking at her, let alone pressing a kiss to her temple, which he would if he wasn't so mad at her.

 _But then, he wouldn't be insisting on taking the couch, now would he?_

She isn't sure why she was seeking that kiss. _Still is._ Maybe she just really wants to be assured. Maybe she just really wants him to stop being angry at her. Maybe she just really wants to know if he'll leave her. Maybe she just really wants to forget that tonight even happened.

 _He's angry at her, right?_

That's what this whole needing space to think is all about.

 _Right?_

She's been lying in bed, alone for what seems like hours now _(you know, the one with all the space in world, the one that's just too big and lonesome just for her right this moment)_ and it just struck her as to how easily the world can fade away, and how the ever mundane and little things like the change in light, the rumble of the occasional vehicles driving in the distance, or the occasional echoes of rustling leaves and branches can still register in her heightened state.

She looks up, jumps up to a sitting position, ripping the ardent darkness from over her head when she thought she heard a tree branch snap under the weight of a stranger outside.

She looks out the window. Equally dark as it was in her cocooned nest.

 _Nothing._

Between that brief return to the consciousness of her surrounding world, and the interior of what is to be accepted as her _home_ now, the realisation is reminding her a bit of Plato's Cave; sitting facing the window, hearing the sounds and watching the shadows of the world dance across the window in front of her, and yet the existence of the objects behind the shadows does not register.

She had been crying; had curled herself in a tight ball and threw the covers over her head in her last-ditch efforts to hide. She had hidden her face with palms too - doesn't exactly know why, really. There is nobody here that hasn't already seen her cry a billion and one times before and besides, there's a blanket and all that space between Derek and her.

Maybe she's hiding away from her shame _for_ ... for every stupid thing she'd done.

She heard it once from somewhere, a movie, she supposes, or perhaps it was Bizzy who told her this, that there is nothing worse for a woman than shame. And she never really understood it, could never really grasp at the fact that there's a clear difference, a double standard to when men and women face shame. But now she does. She understands, she now sees how vulnerable a women's dignity is.

It's the same complex emotion but yet so differently framed.

It's painful, as though she's hurt physically but can't do anything to stop it from throbbing so badly and all she can do is ride it out until she feels much better once again. And it's confusing too. _Is shame suppose to feel like hate? Should she hate herself?_ She guesses that is what it feels like to be ashamed of yourself.

It's become all too much and she just drops her head into her hands again, recalls and cries. She has nothing left, literally - not even that melting iceberg of dignity with Derek she thought she had salvaged from the night of the attack.

It had slowly melted, starting from the night he walked in on _them_ to when she picked up a stranger and let him take her to his apartment and now, tonight, said dignity is just completely nonexistent.

Her husband isn't here and the cries flow in stages.

It's sad at first - the kind of tears you would cry because you're so embarrassed and ashamed of your actions that you, yourself, cannot believe you'd stoop that low too. And then, they change without any warning. They grow hot and mad, angry tears - the ones you cry out of frustration and injustice. For being so stupid and impulsive and never thinking anything through before she actually does something. This isn't her first time or even her second. She should be toppling with shame. She is embarrassing. And lastly, she quietens - nothing else left inside her. Nothing to give. Nothing to grieve. Nothing to rage about.

Just acceptance.

And just as is the sound of silence.

When nothing but the occasional small sound is heard, the way you can hear the thumping of blood pumping through your veins and drumming softly in your ears, the feeling of air passing in and out of your body effortlessly, as your chest rises and falls, it's just a relaxing moment to - well, just accept, relax and be.

 _Oh, wait, what was that sudden shiver through her body? Where did that come from like that?_

It must be nothing. It shouldn't be anything. Just get back to relaxing and be, she tells herself. Enjoy the silence again without worries, without stress, and _please_ don't think of anything else, not of the disaster of tonight and the fact that Derek's here and yet so far away.

 _What's with the shivers all of a sudden?_

Derek locks them, double bolts them all in fact. He always double checks the front door and windows and she doesn't think there's anything open or a draft from somewhere else. So, she can't understand as to why this is happening all of a sudden. It's unexplainable. It's making relaxing a bit more difficult.

 _Maybe ..._ she glances around the room to see if something is causing it to feel a bit chilled.

 _Why does it seem like every little sound now seems odd?_

Familiar but out of tune in some way.

The shivering is basically racking teeth now; she's agitating as to why this is happening.

That low thumping of blood in her ear is growing louder, echoing in her brain.

Her chest is rising and sinking faster all at once.

The silence has a different feel to it now and the air is chilled for sure, but not the crisp kind of chill. It feels heavier by the second, unwanting of her and pressing in all around her four corners.

It doesn't like her. It wants to suffocate her.

 _Why is this coming on like this? Why is she suddenly listening for every little noise? What the fuck is this? Alright. Alright, this is becoming a bit too much, isn't it?_

All there needs to be done right now is to relax.

 _That's it!_

But the trailer is starting to feel much much more crowded than usual, overwhelming, smothering, even more claustrophobic to be in than she remembers.

The hairs on her arms are standing up and there is no reason why they should.

 _Okay._

Anxiety is building and building.

 _But what for? Why now?_ _Calm, calm! What's with the hysterics?_

She has to get up and get out of here.

 _Have to get up! Have to get warm! Have to shake this off!_

Her shaking is getting out of hand. Her heart is beating way too much to breathe.

 _Have to breathe! What's with all the constant little sounds eating up her ear? What is wrong? Get up! Get up! Get up! Why can't she get up?_

All she has to do is leave this trailer and she'll be fine.

 _Can't stop looking around! Why is the air so thick to swallow?_

She needs to get the fuck out right now.

 _Derek! Something isn't right! God, god, this is too much! CHRIST! WHAT IS HAPPENING? Silence!_

That's all she needs.

 _QUIET!_

And that's exactly what happened, which she absolutely hadn't expected.

 _Silence_.

The tiny tiny sounds are all but gone now. There's a ringing in her ears but that's just the sound of the quiet and calm she is suddenly and once again consumed with, as if nothing had ever happened.

 _Welcomed peaceful silence._

The panic seems to be leaving. The shivers fading. The air is lighter and breathable. It's all too strange to make any sense of it, except for the static tingling running all over her body - her back, her spine, chest and down to her arms.

And out of nowhere comes the feeling of breath against her ear and words saying, "It's me, Addie." and the only image at that very moment as she flashes her eyes open is the large black mass that rushes in the room.

 _It's me._

It's Derek's voice.

But he said he needed space.

 _What's he doing here?_

Sucking in a breath, she closes her eyes again. Maybe this is just a fragment of her imagination, her mind toying with her.

Derek's angry with her.

But the pain sitting in her chest like lead is too heavy to be ignored, to be just a dream - more like a nightmare. So, she wills her eyes open once again.

It's no longer pitch blackness. It's no longer dark.

Derek's on the bed, right beside her, looking down at her.

"Are you okay?" his words are stilted. Angular and staccato.

"I don't know."

It is the truth.

"Are _you_ okay?"

"I don't know." he sighs then, like it's the only thing he's capable of doing.

She hadn't realised what she had asked him until she got her answer.

I don't know.

 _But does he know whether he's still angry at her?_

"Are you angry at me?"

"No," he says quickly.

There wasn't even a pause. Not a second or even the tiniest millisecond of thinking, of hesitance.

No thinking, just blurting.

"Are you?"

She shakes her head. "Why would I be?"

He narrows his eyes, she can tell he's thinking. He should be angry. She won't fault him. "I don't know."

He stares at her.

She's now overwhelmed by his smell, his breathing, his trembling fingers inching towards her, pulling back at the last second like they've been burned.

 _He was crying ... He was choking on his own tears ..._

"Everything will be alright."

She stares at him too. It hurts, though. She does it anyway, doesn't let herself believe what he's trying to tell her.

 _A masochist, isn't she?_

Seeking out the pain, letting it singe then burn then scar.

"I'm so sorry, Derek," she whispers, tears fogging her vision and just when she thought she was done with vulnerability.

"I know," he says, wiping tears that had managed to tumble down her cheeks with the back of his fingers. "I'm sorry too."

A wave of something passes over her then. Nausea maybe. Heartbreak, probably.

They sit for a while. Longer than a while actually. Minutes or hours until her vision becomes blurry. And not just from the tears because she's also fighting the urge to close her eyes. If she does let herself succumb, she knows he won't be here when she wakes up.

"Derek, can you please …" she trails off, backing out when he lets his eyes meet hers once again and she sees his own tears too. He adjusts his body, twisting and she's almost certain that he's going to leave - she doesn't know what's making her think that - the desperation for him not to go, knocks all of the wind out of her lungs as she clings onto his arm.

 _Begging_.

But then his arms only envelopes her, sealing her body against his so she can hear the heavy thump of his heartbeat and feel his carefully measured breaths against her hair. The gentle shake of his arms signals to her that he's given in to the grief too and she lets her fingertips stroke the back of his neck steadily, calmly, loosening the muscles beneath his skin so he becomes heavy against her shoulder.

It's her fault he's crying.

"Everything will be alright." It's her turn now to assure him with his words, her voice strangely hopeful and broken all at once, almost childlike.

He nods against her shoulder.

"Everything will be okay."

Those words have now lost all meaning.

* * *

Sometimes they would turn on the television to block out the deafening silence and pretend to be engrossed in whatever is on.

Today, they don't.

Sometimes they would read, other times, they would - actually, she would try to make small talk to fill in the dead air and cherry the desolation.

Tonight, they don't and she doesn't even try.

Often times, when they're both ... like _this_ , on opposite ends of the Great Wall, they'll drink _(a lot)_ , or she'll tell him - make him sink his teeth into her lips and make her forget.

 _Oh_. But she knows sex isn't going to happen tonight - or any time soon, for that matter.

Tonight, time passes slowly.

She supposes, time passes very slowly when you can't or cannot be made to forget.

She just lay pinned to the bed by the weight of her troubled thoughts, staring up at the ceiling in the pitch blackness of the room, not having the energy or impetus to get up and check who it is that's ringing her at this hour.

Her phone is ringing, she is vaguely aware of that, and she leaves it as is.

This night is going to kill her.

All that screaming and shouting and pleading and tearing has given her a killer migraine, and she feels for the stinging red crescents on her arm, remembers that Derek's nails had held her too tightly just a moment ago when - and had broken the skin there. And it's okay. _It will fade_. It'll fade away like nothing happened, as _most_ injuries do.

 _Most._

At best, she is physically exhausted, mentally disturbed, socially ruined and spiritually dead.

That's her.

She can't be like this.

 _Defeated._

She doesn't quit.

 _They_ don't quit.

 _AddisonandDerek_.

She's now starting to realise how very very obnoxiously cheesy it all sounded.

 _I'm holding my ground! We don't quit!_

Still, she tries - in the darkness, she tries to turn her head to the left side and finds her phone lighting up on Derek's face.

He looks drained of colour too.

"It's the hospital."

He only says those three little words, all the while, barely making any eye contact, before handing her the phone. He swings his legs out of bed and flicks the lights on as he does, looking almost concerned, but not exceptionally surprised, when his phone and both their pagers go off at the same time.

 _Shit._

This is going to be an even longer night.

* * *

They're both called and paged into work at half past four in the morning. _Apartment_ _fire_. And neither of them have slept, nor have they talked.

Not exactly.

Derek had already disappeared into the bathroom long before her call with a very nervous-sounding nurse ended, and still, she doesn't make a move. Even with the emergent call from the hospital, she just throws her head back against the pillow and lets her body and mind go limp.

 _Well, she has to go._

She can't still be selfish. She can't still be only thinking about her wellbeing.

But she's exhausted, physically and mentally, _(emotionally?)_ , how can she help her patients and essentially to her job properly when she's so fucked.

She's not drunk.

At least, she's not at all anymore.

No, but really - _how can she doctor when she's so screwed out of her mind right now?_

She doesn't think she knows how to be Dr. Montgomery _(Shepherd)_ feeling this way.

Addison looks up at the ceiling. If only the blank space holds all the answers to all her problems. Maybe, if she just stares hard enough, she would be able to find the strength to haul herself out of bed and the confidence to face ... _people_.

But it's exhausting.

 _Thinking. Staring. Talking._

Everything is becoming so exhausting.

Her mind is a never-ending machine; the way she's able to fixate on one misery, then jump on to the other and then, another because it's the only logical thing to do. Because good things don't last. Because it's the calm before the storm. Because you have to expect the expected, only then, the pain of it will lessen.

She's learned it long ago.

 _Expect the Captain to not come to your ballet recital. Expect Bizzy to pit you up against Audra Levine for accolades and grades._

But then again, what you expect can't really hurt you.

 _Right?_

And that's only because you came prepared, the invisibility cloak and all.

But she can do this - her job, that is - even if she's so tired to the bone and all she wants is to lie here and not start another gruelling twelve-hour at the hospital, especially when she's not supposed to call in today and not to mention, the forty-eight hour shift she ended just hours ago.

She supposes it's all hands on deck.

 _I can do this._

It's probably the only thing she's good at now.

 _Ever?_

The apartment fire must be pretty bad if the hospital is calling her too. She thinks she'd heard the words _'implementing disaster protocol'_ on the phone call earlier but she can't be too sure of herself these days.

Somehow, she finally and successfully manages to drag herself out of bed and hears Derek as she walks steps to the dresser. Her husband's impetuously calm tone cuts through her thoughts and she looks squarely at him.

She's not angry. _No_. She's just slightly irritated at herself because, apparently, he's all dressed and ready to go and making coffee.

"You're exhausted, Addison," he tells her as if she isn't already aware of that, herself.

 _Ignore him_ , she tells herself as she peels yesterday's clothes off her skin. She can't go off on him again, because then, he will definitely leave.

 _Ignore him._

"Addison, you just finished a forty-eight, it's not wise -"

"I'm fine."

 _"Addison."_

"There are people who need me, Derek," she says, "I am a doctor _too_." and she turns away from him, buttoning her blouse as she does, definitely aware of the lack of conviction in her voice.

 _She is a doctor, isn't she?_

* * *

At four in the morning, the streets of Seattle are mostly deserted - if not, completely. She had never really cared to pay any attention to the Emerald City before. All she knows is how to get to and from the hospital.

There's an overpass and after that, a right turn and then, left at East Alder Street and why is Seattle called the Emerald City - do not ask her.

Tonight, it is peacefully deserted, actually.

Not the kind where it's suspiciously deserted and the next thing you know, once that thought crosses your mind, you're getting robbed at gunpoint and suddenly you're looking directly into a muzzle, but peacefully deserted as in there's a high chance that there's someone hiding behind bushes and watching you and waiting for you when you're most vulnerable.

Here, in Seattle, they don't just rob you of your money. They take more than that.

 _Peacefully deserted. Suspiciously calm._

Derek drives them to the hospital, like he always does, while she focuses on getting as much caffeine as possible into her system and as quickly as she can. The coffee is black and strong, exactly how she likes it _(thank you, Derek)_ and it lifts her instantly. Brings just the right amount of life back into her, that she can literally feel her body awakening.

Taking just a whiff of the pick-me-up goodness, it's the good kind of coffee; the kind that reminds her of that artisan place they used to go to on those semi-rare days when both their day-offs coincided.

 _Used to_ , it's in New York.

 _Used to_ , when they didn't have to ask the question; _'What happened to us?'_

She wants to go home.

Derek's going fast on the empty road, but, of course, it's Derek's version of speeding - you know, just above the limit, a number or two.

 _Responsible and careful._

She gets it; the hilarious irony if they're going to be in an _MVC_.

Not _MVC_ , just a vehicle collision; it's a very free and empty highway. And in a twisted way, she thinks of it as kind of liberating.

The wind in her hair and the full force as she flies right out of the windshield, along with her coffee. Or maybe the car will spin and do a couple of somersaults, and double turns, like a gymnast on the beam. And the coffee and windshield and every window in this car will be all over her hair.

Maybe they'll get T-boned, on the passenger side. On her side, of course.

She thinks of not making it.

 _Oh_ \- just her. Only her.

Derek - Derek will be fine.

She knows he will.

In her fantasy, he will be fine. There will not even be a single scratch on him. She can't bear anything happening to her husband, not even in imagination.

She can't and she won't.

Her hands shake - perhaps they have not stopped shaking all night - as she brings the vacuum mug to her mouth and takes a big gulp.

The coffee burns her throat going down.

 _SHIT_.

She winces and can't help but think she deserves it for having such sordid thoughts.

 _GOOD._

From her peripheral view, she sees Derek glancing over at her.

 _SHIT._

She pretends she doesn't see him.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

She turns to look at him and sees nothing but love and concern. After almost sixteen years of being together, sometimes, he can be so difficult to stand, but then again, so can she and after everything she's put him through tonight - _why is he still so nice to her?_

"I will be okay."

* * *

It's a red and blue deserted parking lot against a black backdrop when they get there.

 _Ambulances. Ambulances. Police cruisers. Fire engines and trucks._

The entirety is deafening with an army of blinding neon lights and it isn't exactly deserted like she said - no, not with all the panicked mechanical howls echoing off the silver moon in the crisp Seattle air and announcing their close arrival.

The walls - _what walls_ \- those imaginary walls she's surrounded her being in - they seem to be closing in on her once again, tapping into her subconscious to reek more havoc and panic, as though she hadn't had enough of those in her life lately.

Her breathing starts to quicken noticeably but Derek doesn't seem to notice and that's her problem, she expects him to, but - _why?_ Her thoughts begin to whirl when they step into the chaos of the hospital.

She can't breathe. She can't seem to grasp it.

 _Did she forget?_

She's not forgetful.

 _Am I?_

 _Is she?_

She cannot think straight. She sees Grey at the automatic doors, waiting for the incoming, she supposes, but Addison doesn't exactly look at her, just back at her husband, then at Grey again and at her husband's eyes, that doesn't linger much too inappropriately these days.

There, there it is.

 _What is that?_

Familiarity.

It's nothing. It's blank. No spark of acknowledgement.

He doesn't notice his ex like he doesn't notice his wife, too.

He doesn't notice her and he doesn't notice Grey. He doesn't see her watching him and not glancing at his ex and that just makes things ... _worse_. Somehow, more suspicious because if she can clearly see Meredith Grey, so should he.

Blink. Blink again.

 _It's gonna be okay._

 _Lies. Fairytales. Fallacies._

Oh, how easy it is to convince yourself of that too.

"Dispatch said we have three more incoming. Apartment fire. Burns. Smoke inhalation ..." she hears Richard announces.

There's a very brief pause after each sentence, punctuating the severity of the incident and she'd bet her entire trust fund and more that Chief was directing those basically underlined words at her if anyone asks.

 _Apartment fire - are you sure yours was what it was, Addison?_

 _Burns - where are the evidence, Addison?_

 _Smoke inhalation - you could've stopped it at you!_

She could - _couldn't_ have -

 _No -_

And then suddenly, as though she's being sucked back to her surroundings for the first time tonight, she finally sees what's happening.

It's telling her to stop being selfish, not everything has to come back to her, not everything has to be about her - she can hear yelling, sirens blasting out loudly as it harmonises a strange, but yet, comforting rhythm in her ears. Now, she can hardly hear the demons in her head in such an environment and the demons are always there and they're definitely not Casper, the friendly ghost. It's delightfully impossible to hear those voices, actually, over all the shouting and frantic shuffling and beeping and running around and of course, there's always _always_ someone crying _(someone that isn't her this time)._

Her husband isn't next to her anymore and she hadn't realised it until now, a chart is in her hand and her legs are taking her somewhere. But then, she's also in her white coat and navy scrubs and in comfortable shoes that don't make a sound and she hasn't the recollection of changing into them.

"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd ..." she hears her name being called with a tone of urgency as she merely makes a step into trauma room two.

 _Dr. Montgomery (Shepherd)_ \- sure, if Stevens thinks that's who she ought to be, if everyone here thinks that's who she is, she'll accept that title.

 _Shepherd-without-the-bracket._

She answers the intern with just her name and that's her cue to bombard her with a round up on the patient's condition, based upon initial examination, and she draws the cubicle curtain around them close as she does.

"Five months old. Smoke inhalation -"

There's this high in chaos. It's the complete disarray, the absolute lack of structure, the brouhaha, that's what this has to be, she recognises the nuances between chaos and pandemonium, with the latter bringing her to a complete ... _pandemonium._

She's not panicked, she's not having a breakdown, she feels reeled into her task at hand. She feels a great sense of insurgency, a distraction to this never-ending loop of treachery her mind plays gleefully with her.

She feels at peace because when she's with a patient, when she's doing what she does best, she unflusters, unbraids and unwinds. Words flow out freely without worry; hands touch without a flinch; smiles without recollection of the cracks and crevices of her mind.

Doctor Shepherd knows the right things to say in medical emergencies. Doctor Shepherd knows the correct things to do. Doctor Shepherd knows how to fix the things that are broken.

In here, she does.

But then, someone behind her tugs at the curtain so sharply, so purposefully cruel that she whips around in lightning speed and almost - just almost screamed at the RCP, who just casually walks in without so much as an apology for the interruption. The semblances of the curtain and a zipper unzipping is just so utterly familiar and ... uncannily disgusting.

She pauses, looks around, no one seems to notice a thing.

Gnawing at her lower lip, she goes back to focusing on the five-month-old's breathing as Dr. Stevens continues with her analysis. She's trying to listen to both at once, but all she hears is her own heart.

"Where are the parents?" she asks in diversion from the rising diphthong, only looking towards the blonde intern briefly.

"Um - ahh - umm, they ... their ... remains have yet to be identified."

" _Ohh_." she exhales the breath she didn't know she was holding.

 _Okay_.

For one reason or the other, even for a seasoned veteran like herself, some things are still too difficult to wrap her head around. Nothing is worse than burning to death. It destroys your nerve endings, thus, feeling nothing is eventual. But that's only after you have experienced pain beyond your worst nightmare.

It's what hell on Earth would be like. She knows what that feels like.

She's Satan, according to her husband.

 _Remember?_

"Has CPS been contacted?"

Stevens answers with a simple nod.

 _Poor baby Doe._

His parents are - for the lack of a better term, ashes to ashes; dust to dust; pink mist to pink mist. And he won't even remember the people who brought him to this world.

She feels ... she doesn't know what to feel.

She blinks slowly, slowly listening, slowly taking in her environment. He's all alone in this cruel world and God, she knows what's that like. Her eyes remain focused on the baby; she blinks again. And again. She blinks to hold back the tears. Blinking has a way of keeping them away.

"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd ..."

She doesn't acknowledge the voice, the sentiment, the question, don't want to admit that a _patient_ can still string her heart to shreds.

Although she's done it all, seen enough of mostly everything there is to see, experienced things many will never even imagine of experiencing in their lifetime, it doesn't exactly get any _easier_ for an attending. She'll attest to that. It never truly and wholeheartedly gets _"easier"_. She'll lie to students and interns and say that it will - they all lie so effortlessly because with time comes strength and resilience - _blah, blah, blah_ \- when, in actuality, it's simply the ability to shovel and bury _it_ all down that gets easier.

With time, _it_ gets easier to hide.

 _What?_

 _This._

 _What?_

 _This grief-like feeling._

Time does not bring any ounce of relief whatsoever, that's what it's been shrieking at her to realise all along. _Time_. It's proven itself of that time after time; that time is not anyone's friend; that time doesn't care if you live fast or die slow; or that five months just isn't enough time and perhaps, it is. _Time_. It moves on with or without you. It's linear. Time doesn't care who wins or loses, or if your lifespan is full or empty, honourable or shameful. Time is indifferent. It simply doesn't give a shit.

Tonight, though, she needed this. Time gave her this. _Chaos_. A distraction from her own broken cassette of a mind. A distraction from what happened in the trailer. A distraction from having to look at Derek and know what she did.

Time gave her systematic chaos.

She can hear Chief barking more orders to tag the incoming patients for triage with every other colour of the rainbow.

 _Is this what's it like in her head?_

As she continues to examine the baby's vitals over the hurricane of first responders and doctors, she catches Dr. Bailey's wise words through the curtains.

 _"O'Malley, do not pass out!"_

It's all mind over matter from here. The pits are not a pretty sight. You need to remove yourself mentally to get the job done. Mind over matter and isolation and concentration and devastation and she's only Addison - _a person. S_ ometimes she has to remind herself that she doesn't have to be perfect.

It's the adrenaline that's continuing to make her heart pound, muscles tense, breathe unevenly, and she thinks she may be sweating too. It's the adrenaline that's keeping her upright.

 _"See these singed hairs here? See the black soot? What does that tell us, Dr. Yang_ _?"_

She's the experienced expert here. She's the specialist that's going to help this baby.

In here, that's who she is.

 _"If the nasal hairs are burned, we must also assume that her vocal cords are as well - they could swell at any moment and seal off her airway - we need to intubate immediately."_

Dr. Yang practically shoots out her answer, like she's at a game show and is afraid that someone might beat her to the punch and steal her pride and glory. All she's missing is a buzzer.

She's confident, too.

In here, Doctor Shepherd is.

"Airways seems clear. Increased respiratory rate," she finally says, wrapping the stethoscope over the back of her neck, "Slight tachycardia."

Dr. Stevens looks at her with that pale yellow gown that reminds her of how quickly her life is spiralling out of control and just how much she resembled the young intern as an intern, herself, many many years ago - eager, willingly to learn _(even though she thought she already knew everything)_ and just so innocent.

"Why isn't he waking up, then?"

"CO2 exposure," she answers Stevens, "Push O2 and fluids," she orders, then, and wrinkles her nose because, amongst the hectic ER, there's this smell. The smell of burnt hair and skin and fat, which isn't all that uncommon for a surgeon but one that isn't exactly pleasant and sadly will stick with her for days to come. It's easier to recognise it than to describe it, really. It simply smells of nothing else. The scent is nauseating and sweet at the same time, putrid and steaky, or something like leather being tanned over a flame. It can be so thick and rich that it's almost a taste and you never really get the smell of burning flesh out of your nose entirely. No matter how long you live.

 _"Dr. Karev, can you give me a TBSA assessment of her burns, please?"_

If she could focus on anything but the facts, she would have to be baffled by how she managed to fuck her entire life up in less than a year.

 _"Uh, 60%, mostly partial to full thickness."_

 _"Okay, what does she need now?"_

 _"The parkland formula would suggest that she needs, um, a-at least 10 litres of fluid."_

 _"Good. Do it."_

She snaps back to her surroundings when a flustered Stevens groan, a needle in hand and the other working on baby Doe, attempting to find a vein for the central line.

"I can't - I - I can't. I can't. I can't get a line."

Stevens shoulders are squared when she slumps a little and she watches as she presses an arm to her forehead, her face flushed and contorting in defeat, "I'm sorry, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd."

"Easy, Stevens." she says calmly, schooling her to listen as she explains. After all, Seattle Grace is a teaching hospital. "It's his vessels that are constricted."

"What's plan "B"?" she asks after a moment.

"Interosseous infusion?"

"Is that a question or an answer, Dr. Stevens?"

She looks at her, wearing that hangdog expression of someone who accidentally shot a kitten.

The issue with Stevens is that she has trouble separating herself from her patients, which isn't always negative because then, she'd end up exactly like Dr. Yang, lacking in the empathy department like a sociopath. If Stevens could just take one step back and not fall in love with every other patient she has, she'd be amazing. She's one of the best ones here and could potentially be ... _her_ in the future. Actually, Grey is pretty great too, she's not going to lie. But she's also not going to say that out loud.

In fact, Stevens would be phenomenal if she doesn't think too much of who it is on the table. It's not a beautiful five-month-old infant who just lost his parents. _No_. It's not an innocent baby who doesn't deserve to have his parents taken away. _No_. It's a patient, her patient, their patient and to be a good doctor, they have to learn to be impartial and by experience, she knows that to be the hardest part of medicine.

"But - but we'd have to drill into the baby's leg to get a line."

"Exactly." she nods, eyeing the nurse then, "Susan, I need an I-O drill with a pedi cath."

A great surgeon is knowing how to balance feelings with duty and knowing when to remove yourself entirely. And Chief _(then, Dr. Webber)_ did taught her well - well enough.

"Focus, Dr. Stevens." she says once Izzy has the drill in her hands and is looking terrifyingly at her then down at the baby boy.

"How will you know when you've penetrated bone and reached marrow?"

"I - it's a baby."

Stevens looks dumbfounded at her.

"No. It's a patient, Dr. Stevens."

"I -"

"Focus."

Her eyes rise to meet hers and she waits.

"Stevens, you're wasting time."

"I can't do it, Dr. Montgomery -"

"Relax -"

"I can't. I just can't." the blonde intern's voice pleads with her, then, and somehow the I-O drill is in her hand now and she watches as the back of the yellow gown runs out of the room.

She can't exactly blame her, she'd run too if she can. But once again she's come to learn that you have to do everything yourself if you want it done.

And she does.

She preps the skin. She doesn't falter. She drills into the proximal tibia. She doesn't pause. She acts with precision and skill to give her patient his best chance at seeing tomorrow.

Gloriously efficient. Confidence and purpose radiate from her as her insides quiver with fear.

* * *

From a young age, she's come to understand that when a person is stolen from this world, few will approach the bereaved, few will offer their sympathies, and even fewer will look your way - not in those first moments of agony, when you slide to the floor, cover your face, and let out a sob that horseshoes into something like hysterical laughter.

It is true. If this happens to you, people will leave you in peace. Like they don't want to disturb you. Like you're praying, even if you're facing the wrong direction.

She thinks this comes from a sense of normalcy and not from selfishness. Everyone has lost someone. If they haven't lost someone, they know someone who has.

The loved ones who are taken are like holes and tears in an old piece of clothing no one wants to throw away. Just something that happens. Something to patch over, and sigh over how bright and new the fabric used to be, how it made you feel glorious when it was first purchased and newly worn.

It happens every day, everywhere in this hospital, this kind of incalculable loss. But all she can do is pick up and move on. You do not become a demon feeding on someone's sorrow. That's just selfish.

Grab your bags and walk out, because _what more she can do?_

She did everything she could, to her full potential and knowledge, always has. She's just a doctor, a person, too, who honours the oath she took; _to save a life, all thanks, but it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty._

Above all, she does not play God.

She maintains this same code of conduct through and through, day and night and every time her patient is _stolen_ , every time she breaks the news to families. She sees their red eyes, red face, and sometimes, she sees the other members standing beside them, like soldiers. And then, she watches as they help lead the way once it's all over.

She cares. Always has, she thinks.

She cares too much, perhaps.

* * *

Loneliness is a mental and physical manifestation of both mind and body, which delves deeper than anyone can ever truly comprehend.

It's a wonder how the mind works. Sometimes she just doesn't get it, can't seize to understand why her mind and body would betray her like that.

 _In-charge. Control. Care._

Because it just happened to happen without her even realising it. It's not on purpose. _Isolation. Loneliness_. But they are mutually exclusive. _Loneliness. Isolation_. A high level of social isolation would produce a high level of loneliness; and high levels of loneliness would, in turn, also make people prone to socially isolate themselves. And for someone who is, more or less, _somewhat_ social _(emphasising on the somewhat)_ , the unsaid reservation is suspicious.

She desires company _(who doesn't?)_ , but from someone who will actually understand her and _what_ she's going through, so she wouldn't have to always explain and justify herself and her emotions and talk about it and her mother and how she's making progress and none at all and finding mundane ways to cope.

 _Isolation. Loneliness. Isolation. Loneliness._

Because it is very possible to feel alone in a room full of people. Naked and afraid and disconnected from the world because loneliness is an internal feeling - it's about quality, not quantity.

Maybe she mentally and even physically isolate herself to block out the extra and unnecessary presence there and _make_ herself feel as though no one is or will ever be there for her regardless because it is just so much easier to talk herself into a black hole and blame what's supposed to be _her_ \- and only hers - irrational fears on someone else.

 _Rejection. Honest. Transparent. Hurt. Dangerous._

It's self-sabotage _(or simply self-help.)_ and she does it almost effortlessly, it's like breathing or criticising or ... liquoring, always no questions asked.

She deflects. She avoids people. She's scared she might spill the truth _(self-control is not her forte and that is fact)_ and she knows the truth. Derek and Derek's Meredith, too. Others may not realise it, but she does and they, too.

She catches Meredith ogling her at times as though she has something to get off her chest. She pretends she doesn't see any of that. Perhaps she could be a little nicer to her instead of hounding on her about doing her job when she has done nothing but and sentencing her to the pits most day. What actually got to her is that Meredith complies, only listens and does, never looks at her off anymore, like ... something's changed.

 _But what changed?_

She had been wounded. There needs to be a way for her to dump all that hurt.

 _Right?_

 _But at Derek's Meredith?_

She feels unprecedentedly alone sometimes as no one, that she knows of, have experienced the same traumatic event as her, and it's selfish and unfair, she knows, but that one seemingly _insignificant_ and life-changing event is enough to move her mountains away from others.

 _What gives them the right to advise her on how she should feel, how she should act and what she should do to get better if they've never even been through it themselves?_

 _(But statistics says they're one in five women.)_

No one knows what she's going through. No one feels what she feels.

No one can save her; she'll have to save herself. No one can take back what happened to her; she'll eventually have to learn to cope with it. No one else can make it all better for her. And since no one can help and do all the healing and the difficult parts of coping, she is forced to do it herself, dredging up that feeling that's damned her to a thousand hells.

Help.

 _Everything will be okay ... ?_

 _Are you okay?_

 _We used to tell each other everything. Remember?_

She, of course, hears what he's saying, but his eyes contradicts them. She looks into them for comfort, but that's not what she finds anymore; she sees pity and worry and she sees hope and she sees fear too.

 _A reflection of her own eyes?_

It scares her; so she does what she knows best, she pushes away what alarms her. She hides. However, if she continues to keep pushing and pushing Derek and everyone else away, there's that huge possibility that they'll - _he'll_ never come back. She will be left alone with nothing and no one but her fucking thoughts, her fucking emotions and her fucking fears and it's everything she's been trying to block all this time.

We all came into this world by ourselves, we'll have to suffer through life's consequences by ourselves and eventually, we'll leave by ourselves.

 _Alone and afraid and confused._

Picture a movie or television show; this seems to be a common occurrence in a lot of them, when you see a person in a highly populated city, standing on the sidewalk - completely still and unmoving - as others surrounding them rushes by, absolutely oblivious to their pain. The person standing frozen doesn't seem to notice the fast-paced people swarming all around them as they stare forward and focus on why they're here, why they're feeling this way and why they must suffer alone.

She is that person.

She's watching the world go by. It doesn't stop for her just because of something like _this_ \- and there's nothing she can do about it. She wants the world to slow down and recover with her, but it's impossible. She's alone physically and she's experiencing loneliness mentally. It's not that Derek doesn't care - she knows that - it's just that he doesn't understand what she's feeling and going through no matter how many times he insists that he does, knows what the new psychological study says today about victims of traumatic incidents.

 _Loneliness and isolation._

After Dr. Stevens' breakdown earlier, she managed to drill a needle into baby Doe's leg without issue and the last time she checked on him, he was stable, doing better, but he still hadn't woken up. She had also found the blonde intern sulking in a supply closet and she was thoroughly surprised.

 _Who else does that?_

She sighed, closed the door quickly behind her and anxiously hovered next to Izzy before easing down beside her and resting her back to the wall as the intern sniffled through words of apologies.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Shepherd - Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd - I - I should get back to work." she had said through gritted teeth, pasting a smile on her face as she pushed hairs behind her ear, ready to get up.

She was surprised that Stevens wasn't even more furious with her, considering the last time they worked together, the last time she schooled her.

"You need to learn how to deal with it, Stevens."

"How do you deal with it?" she had asked.

"Well, I try not to see a sick kid on the table. I try to imagine the child in one piece leaving this hospital ..."

"And has that worked for you?"

She paused, then. Really thought about it; she's lied enough, she supposes.

 _Has that worked for her? Has she learned from her own advice? Has Richard really taught her a lesson?_

She lies. Lies spills from her tongue constantly. So, she decided to be truthful for once.

"Not yet. But, what I will say is that _it_ gets easier to deal with."

Stevens looked at her, confusion etched between her brows. "What?"

"That feeling you're feeling right now."

She's waiting for Derek at the lobby as planned. The chaos is more or less over twelve hours later and Chief sends them home at four in the afternoon. She's literally been up for most of three days. Her head throbs and her ribs ache for some reason, she can't keep standing, so she turns towards the bench and plops down with an audible sigh.

 _Dreading_.

She's dreading having to go back home - no, the trailer is no home. But, yes, she's dreading everything about being alone and in close quarters with her husband. She doesn't know how to be herself after what she's done. She's been totally in control for the last twelve hours straight - paperwork and patients and chaos and patients and cries that aren't even hers - and she's proud of that - but it's been an intensely long and exhausting and confusing three days, merged into one exhaustingly long one and she just wants to go home and not talk about _it_ and take the world's longest, hottest shower.

* * *

When she was just a little girl, her grandfather, whom she was named after, whom she loved too much too early for him to pass away so early on in her life, whom she saw as a father than _grand_ father, was _stolen_.

She found him in the living room on his Barcalounger and at first, she thought he had fallen asleep while watching TV, but it was too hot a summer for his skin to be too cold to the touch and he was too quiet to not be complaining about the lack of air-conditioning.

Archer was out with his friends, Bizzy was with hers, the Captain was at work, and she was much too little to reach the telephone, so she ran to the next house miles away and asked if they could call the police for her - her _Daideo_ was alas _stolen._

There were hundreds of sniffling crocodiles lurking their home that afternoon.

Crocodile tears and sham condolences.

People were quick to pat her on the head. Their tears already fallen to their hands, streaks on their faces left as evidence, and they called her brave and asked if she needed anything. But she saw how her brother and father needed comfort so much more than her. Of course, they would. They had known _Daideo_ so much longer, and their grief was likewise extended. Bizzy was indifferent as ever, so she was the one who watched them carefully, anticipated their wants, and put on her sturdiest smile forward. Sturdy as the wood in her home's foundation.

This resolve lasted until the day she started screaming in class. It would go down in silent family lore as the day she finally mourned her grandfather, but the reality would be, like most things in life, a bit more complicated.

She was etching out words and numbers in whispering graphite that morning when her eyes landed on the two empty chairs where the Hanson twins once sat.

 _Lisa and Linda._

The three of them grew up together like vines, in and out of each other's homes. They had just become obsessed with ghost stories and had taken to staring at the adults' feet, hoping to find a pair that were turned backwards. All of them had been secretly unsure what they'd do if they ever, actually, uncovered a ghost, but no one dared voice their fear.

The twins' parents had a boat - well, a lot more than just one boat - and sometimes she'd be permitted to come aboard with them in their expeditions. Often times she would fall asleep on their adventures, lulled into a nap by the waves lapping against the boat. Then, one day, she went to school and they weren't there. Day after day, she waited and they still weren't there.

It had been explained to her later, but it was all just cold as ice facts, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. Full stop after full stop. This and that happened and what and when and hopeful expectations, nothing more than a sentence.

The twins were _stolen_ on this particular day. For no particular reason. None was given to her at seven years of age.

They were gone, and she won't be able to see them again. Not in this lifetime, at least.

That morning, she found herself staring and staring intently at those empty seats, and then, she set her pencil down on her desk, the depression, the heaviness of what she knew and knew not, wanted and wanted not, it all abandoned her, all reasoning and face, and that's when she started to howl.

She screamed and screamed, banging her feet against the floor, certain she was becoming younger with each angry gasp.

-:-

Mrs. Menken was the one who sat beside her when they called in her father. The trio sat hunched over the teacher's desk, as though the adults were trees trying to descend to her level. Her lungs burned so hard she thought her chest was melting away.

 _If she also disappeared, how would anyone explain it?_

"I don't know how this could have happened."

Her father said that, too, the day _Daideo_ was _stolen_.

"I am so sorry. She never does this."

Mrs. Menken had a temper and she was strict. She demanded perfect answers and perfect handwriting. The students often feared her before they realised they damn right admired her. But at that moment she showed her a kind of tenderness she would later learn was rarely extended to anyone else but her children.

"Your daughter is grieving. That's normal, Dr. Montgomery."

"Normal? _This_?"

Her father looked at her, and her face turned towards his. However, her eyes followed Mrs. Menken and that's when she saw it; her teacher's gaze landing on each of the desks where the Hanson twins used to sit, where Lisa and Linda used to sit.

"Is this the first time she's cried about - _it_?" Mrs. Menken asked, now.

Her father started to say something, and then he stopped.

"Is it, Kitten? I don't think I've ever seen you cry over _Daideo_."

"Am I in trouble?" she whispered, too exhausted to worry over sounding babyish.

"No." he patted her on the hand and, already, his eyes were far away. Planning something. The Captain was always up to something. "Do I need to take her to … someone?" he turned towards Mrs. Menken again.

"I can't tell you what to do with your family, Dr. Montgomery. But if that's what you decided to do, it would be best ..."

Addison twisted her fingers together. Over and under and over again. She felt like the conversation, that's clearly about her, was passing her by. Adults have a tendency to do this a lot, thinking that children are _too young_ to know what's good for them, _too young_ to understand, _too young_ to make their own decisions, _too young ..._

 _Too young_ , those two words are always the _no-further-explanation-needed_ explanation.

 _Too young ... too young ... too young ..._

She was only seven and at that tender age, euphemisms flew over her head, like the top of a raging river. And then, there was Archer back at home, who thought she was dumber than a goldfish, all because he had been on this planet longer, and had picked up a few big words she didn't know yet. _Big deal._ He was the one who always messed up on the typewriter, not her.

"Addison, dear?" she looked up, then, and remembered the posture her teacher liked and she quickly straightened up.

"Yes, Mrs. Menken."

"There is no point in holding back. The things you feel will find its way out no matter how hard you try to keep them in. Sometimes they come back in twisted ways, too."

It was so unlike the comfort or praise other adults have shown her that Addison stared, dumbstruck. She said nothing, even at her father's prompting. But this was the one time Mrs. Menken didn't seem to demand an answer.

The words ensnared her heart, twisting around it, like the weeds that were starting to edge out her _Daideo's_ blossoms. She had been watering them and it seemed to make them brown over even faster, so she decided to let them die and fertilise the soil. It's strange, really, a minor miracle, that dead things could fortify the living.

 _There is no point in holding back ..._

She still heard her teacher's voice when her father took her to a cafe later that morning. The hot chocolate was milky, and the scent of marshmallows and vanilla smelled like a home that no longer existed. She swallowed it down, even though the hot chocolate was much too hot on her tongue.

She still hears Mrs. Menken's voice in her head sometimes, more so now than ever. Mostly at withering nights, or when it gets too quiet.

 _The things you feel will find its way out no matter how hard you try to keep them in ..._

The last time she saw her teacher she was an intern. The sun was overhead and Mrs. Menken was sitting on a bench outside the hospital. She suspected something bad had happened to her dear teacher, with her eyes that were red, face, too, and she had no one standing beside her, like soldiers.

She didn't turn away from Mrs. Menken that afternoon; she needed someone, a friend to guide her, to see light in the darkness, as she did her all those years ago. She didn't ignore her because Mrs. Menken didn't do so when she was howling at the top of her lungs. She didn't turn away, not when Mrs. Menken smelled of ash and gasoline.

 _There is no point in holding back. The things you feel will find its way out no matter how hard you try to keep them in. Sometimes they come back in twisted ways, too._

* * *

The silence is palpable and uncomfortable when they walk in through the door of the trailer - as was the ride home, and by the silence that's much louder than usual, the silence between them tells her that Derek wants to talk about what happened last night. Or maybe he wants to talk about today - it's been a difficult day at the hospital, after all.

She thinks she's been doing great so far at hiding the peril of destruction, even from Derek, but -

She's claustrophobic.

They shed their coats as soon as he shuts the aluminium door behind them, sighing a little as the lock jams into place and they're closed off from everything and everyone else.

She watches him pull the laces of his shoes until the knot is no more so that he can take his feet out and wiggle his toes against the cold floor like always. Once they're lined up by the wall, he turn towards her and there's a moment where they both just look at each other, where all the little creaks from the woods outside fade into to a nothingness and all she can hear is her heart thudding restlessly in her ears and the pain that is in his eyes.

It's always this or that or - that.

 _Pain. Fear. Worry._

She doesn't let those incessant tears fall, though. They stay trapped in their confines, too much too proud to fall.

 _Pride? Shame? What's the difference?_

Suddenly, she realises that this trailer is too tiny for the two of them. There's literally no space to walk without walking all over each other or to think without hearing one's thoughts. And he's breathing too much and too loud and it's like a bug in her ear, buzzing, buzzing - _or, wait, is it she hogging all the oxygen in the trailer?_

She can't - she can't - handle it, she feels so incredibly stupid and embarrassed already, so she tears her eyes from his and starts babbling instead, kicking off her heels as she does and hastening towards the mini makeshift bar to pour them both a drink.

Her feet hurts. Her head, too. Her heart - she doesn't know how to be alone with her husband anymore.

"Erm, so, I'm thinking we could go out to dinner. We haven't done - like a date night in a while - well, longer than a while, actually - you know, the two of us - to dinner - restaurant, maybe _Canlis_ and I could wear that dress you like and since it's so early, we could still make a reservation ..."

She's rambling, she hears herself and she sounds desperate, like she's grasping on nothing, she knows, clawing her way up a cliff after she'd just thrown herself off; she can hear that pitch rising and rising higher but she keeps on going, downing her wine in a gulp, not even looking at Derek to gauge his reaction. "I know it's been a long week, but I thought it just might be nice to just relax and - you know? It'd be just like before."

When she finally glances up, Derek's looking at her sadly, and she knows he's disappointed. And maybe angry. But she has no good explanation for what she did, none at all. So, maybe if they can just keep going, keep moving forward, the whole thing can just stay buried until it goes away. All on its own. Naturally forgotten with time.

"And I mean, if you'd prefer somewhere else," she says as a matter of fact. "It's fine, too. We don't have to go to _Canlis_. There's _The Pink Door_ or _Altura_ \- oh, and you seemed to really like that one in Bro -"

"Addison, stop." he blurts out in a sudden flash of emotion and anger.

It's all he says.

Her name and _'stop'_ and she does as she's told while he takes another sip of his drink and she knows he's wishing it would burn more going down, rather than the sweet tartness.

Hurt and fear, the twin embers left smouldering, clearly not as spent as she thought, because it still pains her.

"It's dumb. I'm sorry."

"No. No." he murmurs, forcing his face to remain neutral, but then, she's had all of his expressions archived up there - up in that big head of hers. "Don't say that. Don't say you're sorry, Addison, when ... you have nothing to be sorry about." he hisses, running fingers through his hair.

"I'm sorry, Derek."

He looks confused and overwhelmed. And maybe he had noticed the moisture glistening in her eyes and her jaw that squares against the emotion fighting to break free, because he only sighs, then shakes his head, looks like he might just say something more, but, just leans in and kisses her forehead. "It's okay. Go take a shower," he says gently. "We're both tired, hmm, we'll stay in and I'll make us dinner."

He stares at her glass-like eyes, a window to her soul, as thin as an old stained glass, ready to break at any moment, ready to let hurricanes and thunderstorms escape from within and create blue seas.

He stares at them, but he doesn't stare at her, at her bones and her veins, and whatever is left from a -somehow - still beating heart. He doesn't see the cuts in her heart, time has healed them.

 _But doesn't he know?_

Time is cruel. It may have shed a new skin over her scars, but she still feels the cold feeling of that night when he found her broken and knew, and the memories of her blood escaping the warmth of her body are as vivid as yesterday.

He stares at them, but he doesn't see _them_ , he doesn't see her, he sees his altered version of her. He sees blue eyes and red hair on a person, he doesn't see a person who happens to have blue eyes and red hair.

He examines her, erases and re-draws her until he's finally satisfied. He tells her she's beautiful, but beautiful are those flowers and Christmas lights, calling a person beautiful is as superficial as reading a poem and saying you like the ink.

He stares at them, but he actually doesn't.

Her voice is steady even as her fingers tremble against the wine glass. "I love you," she says and keeps her eyes locked to the ground, a lock of hair escaping its pins to hide the curve of her cheek. "You know that, right?"

She feels guilty now. She's hurting him - she knows that. She just can't seem to stop herself anymore.

"Of course, I do ..." he starts but his voice skids to a halt and he sucks in a deep breath to gather his courage and places his cheek to the top of her head, tightening the arms around her ever so slightly and silently rejoicing when she doesn't retreat but pushes in closer.

"I never stopped," he breathes, even though it's pointless.

They may be making progress here, major progress, but he refuses to believe that so much damage can be repaired in a single night.

* * *

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